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Colonel William F. Cody 
"Buffalo Bill" 



M EMO RI ES 

OF BUFFALO BILL 

BY HIS WIFE, LOUISA FREDERICI 
CODY, IN COLLABORATION WITH 
COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER 




D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK : LONDON : MCMXIX 







iJAi^C * ^^vci 



COPYRIGHT, 1919, BT 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY 



Copyright, 1919, by 

THE CUBTIS PUBLISHIMa COMPANT 



PRINTED IN THE TJNITF,D STATES OF AMERICA 



©CI.A559546 

JAN '£1 ib^u 



MEMORIES 

OF BUFFALO BILL 



MEMORIES 
OF BUFFALO BILL 



CHAPTER I 

It was more than a half century ago, May 1, 
1865, to be exact. The twinge of early spring 
had not yet left the air, and I sat curled up in a 
big chair in front of the grate fire in our little 
home in Old Frenchtown, St. Louis. 

There was a reason for the fact that we lived 
in Frenchtown; it carried a thought of home to 
my father, John Frederici, who saw in it an echo 
of Alsace-Lorraine, where he was born, and 
where he lived until the call of America brought 
his parents to this country. And so, when it had 
become necessary for him to move into town from 
his farm on the Merrimac River, near St. Louis, 
he had naturally chosen Frenchtown, with its 
quaint old houses of Chateau Avenue, its ram- 
bling, ancient, French market, and its people, 
reminiscent in customs and in language of the 
1 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

country whence he came. My mother, plain 
American that she was, with the plainer name 
of Smith, nevertheless understood my father's 
yearnings and enjoyed with him the community 
in which he found pleasure. And so, in French- 
town we lived and were happy. 

For my part, on that evening, I was especially 
happy. My convent days were over, and my age 
had reached that point when my mother would 
only smile and nod her head at the thought of 
beaux. And to-night, I was to have two! 

One I had seen many times before, Louis 
Reiber, who once or twice had told me that he 
liked me very much, and who, on more than one 
occasion, had shown that he could be fully as 
jealous as any young beau could be expected to 
appear. The other I did not know — even his 
name. I was sure of only one thing, the fact 
that my cousin, William McDonald, had asked 
for the privilege of bringing him out and had 
explained that he was a young man who had 
fought well on the Union side in the Civil War, 
and that he believed I would like him. 

So, comfortable in the knowledge of having 
two young men to talk to, I was even more com- 
fortable in the fact that I was curled up in the 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

big chair before the fire reading the exciting ad- 
ventures of some persecuted duchess and a hein- 
ous duke, as they trailed in and out of the pages 
of the old Family Fireside, Upstairs, my sister, 
Elizabeth, preparing also for an engagement that 
evening, sang and hummed as she arranged her 
toilet. The fire crackled comfortably; the ad- 
ventures of the duke and duchess through their 
sheer nonsensical melodrama began to have a 
bromidic effect upon me. I nodded — 

Suddenly to scramble wildly, to scream, then 
to struggle to my feet as I felt the chair pulled 
suddenly from beneath me. I heard some one 
laugh ; then I whirled angrily and my right hand 
sped through the air. 

"Will McDonald!" I cried as I felt my hand 
strike flesh, "if you ever do that again, I'll " 

Then I stopped and blushed and stammered. 
For I had slapped, full in the mouth, a young 
man I never before had seen! 

The young man rubbed his lips ruefully, eyed 
me for a second, then began to laugh. My 
cousin, doubled over with joy at the unexpected 
success of his joke, at last managed to choke out 
the words : 

"Louisa, this is the young man I told you 
3 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

about. Allow me to present Private William 
Frederick Cody of the United States Army." 

I stammered out some sort of an acknowledg- 
ment. My face was burning, and if I only could 
have had the chance, I would have given almost 
anything to have pulled out, separately and with 
the most exquisite torture, every hair on the head 
of that rollicking cousin. But Private Cody did 
not seem to notice. He rubbed his lips with his 
handkerchief, and then, his eyes twinkling, an- 
swered : 

"I believe — I believe Miss Frederici and I have 
met before." 

"Where?" I asked innocently. 

"In battle," came the answer, and I flounced 
out of the room. 

Nor would I return until my cousin had sought 
me out and apologized voluminously for his prac- 
tical joke. 

"I just couldn't resist the temptation," he 
begged. "I'll never do it again, honest. And 
listen, Louisa, if you'll forgive me, we'll have all 
our fun to-night at Lou Reiber's expense. You 
know how jealous he is. Well, you and Will 
Cody just pretend that you've known each other 
a long time and we'll have plenty to laugh about. 
4 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Won't you now — like a good girl, if I buy you 
some flowers — won't you?" 

"And a box of candy?" 

"Yes, and a box of candy. But from the way 
Cody looks at you, I'm thinking that he'll be the 
one " 

"Will McDonald!" 

"Well, it's the truth. He didn't take his eyes 
off you." 

"How could he help it?" I asked acidly. "If 
I were a man and a girl jumped out of a chair 
and slapped me in the mouth, I would want to 
see what she looked like, too. Oh, Will," and my 
lips quivered, "he'll think I'm a regular vixen." 

"No, he won't — honestly, Louisa " and 

he petted me. "Come on now — please, like a 
good girl. Lou Reiber will be here almost any 
moment." 

So I returned, while Private Cody apologized 
very seriously, while I spent the time noticing 
that he was tall and straight and strong, that his 
hair was jet black, his features finely molded, 
and his eyes clear and sharp, determined and yet 
kindly, with a twinkle in them even while he most 
seriously told me how sorry he was that he had 
hurt my feelings. 

5 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

And he was handsome, about the most hand- 
some man I ever had seen! I never knew until 
that evening how wonderful the blue uniform of 
the common soldier could be. Clean shaven, the 
ruddiness of health glowing in his cheeks ; grace- 
ful, lithe, smooth in his movements and in the 
modulations of his speech, he was quite the most 
wonderful man I had ever known, and I almost 
bit my tongue to keep from telling him so. 

The apologies over, and Will McDonald safely 
planted in a corner where he could do no more 
harm, we joked and chatted and planned for the 
arrival of Louis Reiber. When he came, We were 
to act as though we had known each other for 
years, and, in fact, appear mildly infatuated. 

"And if he asks us where we knew each other, 
I'll think of some foolish thing to say that will 
make him wonder more than ever," said Private 
Cody. "We'll just make him guess about every- 
thing." 

"But if I've known you so long," I countered, 
"certainly I wouldn't call you simply Private 
Cody or Mr. Cody. That is — at least, if I'd 
known you as long as I'm supposed " 

"Certainly not." He was chuckling at the pre- 
dicament I'd gotten myself into. "You'd call 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

me Willie, just like my mother used to do." 

"But " it was my first chance at repartee, 

"you don't look like the sort of a man to be called 
Willie. Do all men call you Willie?" 

"Men call me 'Bill,' " came simply, and there 
was a light in his eyes that I had not seen before, 
a serious, almost somber glint. "Only one per- 
son has ever called me 'Willie.' That was my 
mother — I've always been just a little boy to her, 
and she liked the name. And because she liked 
it, I liked it. You are the only other person I 
ever have asked to call me by the name." 
I held out my hand. 

"Thank you, Willie," I said seriously. Then 
he chuckled again. 

"All right, Louisa. Now, that's settled." 
| And so, when Louis Reiber arrived, I hurried 
1 to him with the information that I wanted him 
I to meet a very old and dear friend of mine, Pri- 
vate Willie Cody of the United States Army. 
I Mr. Reiber's black eyes flashed. 
J "I don't believe I've ever heard you mention 
' him," he said somewhat ungraciously. Mr. Cody 
smiled. 

"But that doesn't mean I haven't been in her 
thoughts, does it, Louisa?" 
7 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

The mention of my Christian name caused Mr. 
Reiber to stare harder than ever. 

"I thought you were joking at first," he began. 
"Now, I really believe you're in earnest. Tell 
me, how long have you known each other?" 

"Oh, for a long time," I bantered. "Haven't 
we, Willie?" 

"A very long time," he answered. 

Then the conversation switched, only to be 
brought back by Mr. Reiber to the subject of our 
acquaintance. We played him between us, teased 
him and tormented him, and at last, in answer to 
one of his questions, Mr. Cody leaned forward in 
mock seriousness. 

"If you want to know the truth," he said, "I'll 
tell it for the first time. Louisa and I are to be 
married." 

"You're engaged?" Louis Reiber sat straight 
up in his chair. 

"Of course," answered Mr. Cody. Then he 
turned to me. "Isn't that the truth?" 

"The absolute truth," I answered. 

Louis Reiber fidgeted. 

"But — where did you meet each other? Of 
course, I understand, I haven't any right to ask 

the question, but I'd really like to know. I " 

8 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"If you'll promise never to tell?" Mr. Cody 
held up a hand in a mock oath. 

"Why — why certainly." 

"Well " and the corners of Will Cody's 

lips curled in spite of his attempt to be serious — 
"when I went out of the penitentiary, she went 
in!" 

"Willie Cody, how dare you!" I giggled. 

"Well, he wanted information." 

I remember that it was just about that time 
that Mr. Reiber ran a finger around his collar, 
and rose. 

"I — I'm sorry I can't stay any longer," he said 
at last. "I just dropped in for a moment. I 
rather promised Miss Lu Point that I'd come by 
this evening." He held out his hand. "I cer- 
tainly congratulate you, Mr. Cody." 

"Oh, I congratulate myself," Will agreed. 

"And I feel very happy about it too," I added. 

"So do I," chimed in Will McDonald, who had 
listened, grinning, all the while. "You see, I'm 
really the one who arranged it." 

Mr. Reiber didn't say a word to him — he just 

looked, and that was enough. Then he bade us 

good-night, and we laughed at what we thought 

was the great joke that we had played on him. I 

9 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

was especially struck by the humor and nonsense 
of it all. But the next morning, I realized that 
it wasn't as nonsensical as I had imagined, for 
bright and early, a messenger boy was waiting 
with a letter for me. I never had seen the writing 
before, but the moment I began to read, I knew. 
It was from the handsome young man of the 
night before, the man whose eyes always twinkled 
and whose lips were continually smiling, and I 
couldn't help wondering whether this was a con- 
tinuance of the joke. 

The letter long ago was lost, but I always will 
remember the sense of it. It ran something like 
this: 
My Dear Louisa: 

I know you will forgive me for calling you this — be- 
cause you will always be Louisa to me, just as I will be 
glad if I may always be Willie to you. 

We joked a great deal last night. I realize now, how- 
ever, that it was not all joking. May I call again, to- 
night ? 

Respectfully, 
Willie. 

I left the messenger at the door and hurried, 
somewhat panic-stricken, to my sister, Elizabeth. 

"Certainly not," she said wisely. "If you let 
him come to-night, he'll begin to believe that you 
think something of him." 
10 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Well," I hesitated, "he's— he's terribly hand- 
some." 

She looked at me sharply. 

"That hasn't anything to do with it. If he 
thinks enough of you to really want to come, he'll 
ask again. Tell him that you're very sorry, but 
that you have an engagement for this evening 
and " 

"Then, suppose he should never ask again," I 
faltered. 

"Just you see," she answered wisely. "A man 
never likes to get what he wants right away." 

"But I'd — I'd like to see him a great deal." 

"Then what did you ask my advice for?" 

So, dutifully I sat down and wrote a very re- 
gretful note, telling him that it was impossible for 
him to come that evening, but that I hoped that 
he would not leave the city without making an- 
other effort. I gave it to the messenger with mis- 
givings and watched him as he hurried down the 
street, wishing that a girl's life was not bound 
with so many conventions and that — well, that 
he'd come anyway. 

But he didn't. The next day, it was necessary 
for me to go into the downtown district, and ac- 
cording to the fashion — for the weather had 
11 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

changed and the sun was blazing hot — I wore the 
several veils which were then believed so neces- 
sary to protect one's complexion against sun- 
burn. 

So heavy were they that I could hardly see, and 
like all other girls, I groped my way through the 
downtown district and back home again without 
recognizing any one. But an hour or so after I 
had returned, I realized that while I had not seen 
any one I knew, some one else had seen me. A 
messenger was at the door, and this time I knew 
the writing. It was poetry, and I'll never for- 
get it : 

"The blazing sun of brilliant day- 
May veil the light of stars above, 
But no amount of heavy veils 
Can e'er deceive the eyes of love." 

Then at the bottom was written : 

"I am not going to ask this time. I hope I may see 
you this evening." 

And while the locusts sang in the old trees that 
lined the street that evening, he came, and I heard 
later that the children playing along the street — 
always an encyclopedia of information regarding 
my callers — announced among themselves that I 
had a new and very handsome beau. As for my- 
12 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

self, I'm afraid that I was not very self-possessed. 
I had never met a man exactly like him before. 

It was very warm that evening, and so we 
abandoned indoors for the coolness of the porch. 
For awhile, we talked of nonentities, while the 
children played about the sidewalk and while the 
family came and went. At last, the lazy evening 
changed to night, the locust ceased its singing in 
the maples, and the lamp-lighter, his ladder 
slanted across his shoulder, made his trip along 
the old street. Will and I had seated ourselves 
on the steps of the porch, I leaning against one 
pillar, he against another, across the way. Sud- 
denly he changed position and came nearer me. 

" You're not angry?" he asked. We were alone 
now. 

"About what?" 

"That poetry?" 

"Of course not. But you didn't make it up. 
You copied it from something." 

"Honestly I made up every word of it," he pro- 
tested. "I thought it was real good." 

"So did I — only I couldn't see much sense to 
it." I wouldn't tell him, of course, that I had it 
right with me that moment. "I couldn't under- 
stand it at all." 

13 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Well," and he laughed, "I gruess I'm better 
at killing Indians." 

"Sho' now," I looked toward him with inter- 
est, "did you ever kill an Indian?" 

"A good many," came quietly. "I killed my 
first one when I was eleven years old." 

"Yes," I laughed, "just like you and I were 
friends for years and engaged and all that sort 
of thing. Willie Cody, can't you ever be seri- 
ous?" 

But when he answered me, there was a differ- 
ent note in his voice, a note of sadness quite dif- 
ferent from the jovial, rollicking tone that usual- 
ly was there. 

"I killed my first Indian when I was eleven 
years old," came the slow repetition. "Sometimes 
I think I've been fighting my way through life 
ever since the day I was born. Not that I'm 
sorry," he added quickly ; "it was my own life and 
I chose it and I wouldn't give it up — but it hasn't 
been easy." 

"And you've really killed Indians?" The 
thought was uppermost in my mind. St. Louis, 
it is true, was far West then, and we saw Indians 
now and then who came into the city from beyond 
the borders of civilization, but they, as a rule, 
U 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

were friendly scouts who had joined the Union 
forces and were acting as guides for the various 
contingents of the United States Army operating 
in Missouri. To us, the land of the buffalo, the 
war whoop and the tomahawk was far away — 
for Leavenworth, Denver, and cities that now are 
but a ride of a day or two from St. Louis, were 
then, through the lack of transportation, far in 
the distance. 

The real West began at Kansas City — West- 
port, it was called then — and from there came 
many a harrowing story of bloodshed, of Indian 
attacks and outlawry. And to actually look on 
some one who had been through this, who could 
talk calmly of having killed Indians, and of hav- 
ing killed his first Indian when he was nothing 
more than a boy, was something I never before 
had experienced. To me, it was wonderful. But 
to Will Cody, sitting by my side, it was only a 
recital of a hard, grueling childhood and youth, 
spent in the midst of turmoil and danger. 

"I can't remember much else but hard knocks," 
he said at last. "The first one came when I was 
seven years old. We'd moved to a place called 
Walnut Grove Farm, in Scott County, Iowa, 
near where I was born." 
15 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"When?" I asked. 

"When was I born? In Scott County, Febru- 
ary 26, 1845." 

"Then you're only twenty years old?" 

"That's right," he laughed — a short hard laugh 
that I did not like. "But I've seen enough and 
done enough to make it seem longer. It all be- 
gan when Samuel — he was my brother — was 
killed. He was twelve. I was only about seven. 
We'd gone out on horseback together to bring in 
the cows. Sam's horse reared and fell on him. I 
dragged him forth, crying over him and trying to 
bring him back to consciousness, but I could not, 
and I had to jump to my horse again and ride to 
find my father and tell him about it — leaving my 
brother dying. There wasn't a chance for him — 
he died the next morning, and soon after that my 
father decided to emigrate. We were all glad. 
I was more glad than the others ; I wanted to get 
away. It seemed to me that I could always see 
that horse just as it toppled and fell, and hear 
Sam screaming beneath it." 

He was silent a moment, then went on — as 
though he felt I should know the whole story of 
all that he had done, all that he had experienced 
16 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

before that night when I jumped from my chair 
and slapped him. 

"Kansas wasn't even as well settled then as it 
is now," he began again, "but my father decided 
to go there, and bundled up my mother and all 
of the children, Martha and Julia and Nellie — 
Mary and Charles, my other sister and brother, 
were born later — and with an old carriage, three 
wagons and some horses, we started out. 

"When we got to Weston, Missouri, my father 
decided to stay a while with his brother, Elijah, 
who ran a trading post there ; then we went on to 
Fort Leavenworth. The cholera was raging 
then. Every once in a while we would see some 
Mormon emigrant train stopped along the road 
to bury its dead, and as we would pass the place 
we would hold our breath to keep from catching 
the disease. At last father established a camp 
near Rively's trading post, on the Kickapoo 
agency, and I came to know men who carried 
guns and knives and who fought just for the love 
of killing. 

"While we were there an uncle who had been 

in California came to visit us. His name was 

Horace Billings and he was an expert rider. I 

liked him, he liked me, and he taught me to ride. 

17 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Then we went out to hunt wild horses together 
— he had taught me to use a lasso, and I could 
handle it pretty well." 

"Wild horses?" I asked. My eyes were wide. 
"I didn't know " 

"A number of them had escaped a year or so 
before from the government reservation at 
Leavenworth," Will answered. 

"But weren't you afraid?" 

"A little— at first," he agreed. 

"But your mother — didn't she object?" 

Will Cody laid a hand on my arm. 

"My mother always objected," came his an- 
swer. "But she never said 'no' to me. The night 
I went away on my first hunt, she cried, but she 
did not let me know it. We were very poor — 
almost," and he laughed — "as poor as I am right 
now. And the government was paying ten dol- 
lars a head for every horse that was recovered." 

"And you slept outdoors and everything like 
that?" 

"Of course," he answered me. "And killed our 
own game and cooked it. So you see, I began 
getting my education early. My uncle had had 
some schooling and in what time we had around 
the camp fire at night, he taught me the things 
18 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

that my mother would have liked for me to have 
learned. But at the same time, I was learning 
more about how to ride and how to shoot and 
handle myself on the plains. 

"We kept that up for a while, then my uncle 
decided to rove on again and I went back home. 
About that time, the Enabling Act for Kansas 
territory had gone through and there was a rush 
into the country. Every trail seemed to be loaded 
with emigrant wagons, and I saw more than one 
homestead staked out with whisky bottles. 

"It was a while after this that the slavery ques- 
tion came up and my father announced himself 
as an abolitionist. Nearly every one was against 
him and one night they all gathered at the trad- 
ing post and forced him to make a speech. While 
he was telling them his views, the crowd started 
at him and one of them stabbed him. That's 
why I'm in this uniform." 

I remember how tightly I clenched my hands. 

"And they killed him!" I exclaimed. But in 
the half darkness, I could see Will Cody shake 
his head. 

"No — worse. They only injured him so badly 
that he laid for weeks in danger of death. We 
got him away that night and hid him. After that, 
19 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

it was almost a constant thing for bands of pro- 
slavery men to come to the house hunting him. 
One night, a group of them on horseback sur- 
rounded the house, and, weak as he was, my 
father was forced to disguise himself in my 
mother's bonnet and dress and shawl and hide in 
a cornfield three days, until we could find the 
chance to get him to Fort Leavenworth. 

"After that, we moved to Grasshopper Falls, 
Kansas, thinking to get away from the pro- 
slavery men, but it wasn't much use. My father 
was building a sawmill there, and one night a 
hired man came hurrying home to tell us of a plot 
to kill father at the mill. Mother called me and 
put me on Prince, my horse, and started me to 
save my father. 

"I rode about seven miles when I suddenly 
came on a group of men. One of them started 
for me. 

" 'There's that old abolitionist's son,' he 
shouted, and commanded me to halt, but I kept 
on. They started after me, but I was light on 
Prince's back and I outdistanced them. I warned 
father and we hurried to Lawrence, where he 
joined the Free State men, who protected him. 

"But there never was any peace after that. 
20 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

The pro-slavery men came to our house regular- 
ly; once mother only drove them away by pre- 
tending there was a large body of armed men in 
the house. At another time, they stole my horse, 
Prince. Often they would come and ransack the 
place, taking everything of value. My father 
could not stay at home, and money was scarce. 
I went to work for Russell and Majors who 
owned a great many wagon trains and cattle, 
herding for them at twenty -five dollars a month. 
And then I was only ten years old." 

It all seemed inconceivable. And yet there was 
something about the quiet, modest seriousness of 
the tone that told me that every word he was 
speaking was the truth. There were no frills 
about Will Cody's story as he told it to me that 
night on the porch, no embellishments — it was 
only the natural story of a young man who had 
faced hardships and who, no doubt, was forget- 
ting more than he told. After a moment, he went 
on again : 

"Things kept up that way until 1857 — with the 
exception of the fact that I went home for a while 
and went to school. Then, my father died, al- 
most as a direct result of that stab wound, and I 
was left to be the provider for the family. I went 
21 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

back to the people I had worked for before, Rus- 
sell and Majors, and was detailed to ride with a 
herd of beef cattle, under Frank and William 
McCarthy, for General Albert Sidney Johnson's 
army, which was being sent across the plains to 
fight the Mormons. 

"We got along all right until we got to Plum 
Creek on the South Platte River, west of old Fort 
Kearney. Then, all of a sudden, shots began to 
sound and we heard the war whoop of Indians. 
We had been camping and jumped to our feet. 
Already the cattle had been stampeded by the 
Indians who had shot and killed the three men 
guarding them. 

"I was only eleven years old then and I guess 
I was scared." He laughed at the recollection of 
it. "I don't remember much until I heard Frank 
McCarthy tell us to make a break for a little 
creek, and I was running as fast as I could. The 
bank gave us good protection and we started to 
make our way back to Fort Kearney. 

"Of course, I was the youngest of the party, 
and I fell behind. By and by night came and the 
moon came out, and I got more scared than ever. 
All of a sudden I heard a grunt from above and 
looked up on the creek bank to see an Indian 
22 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

staring about him. My gun went to my shoulder 
and I had fired almost before I knew what I was 
doing. There was a whoop, and then an Indian 
tumbled over the bank — stone dead." 

There on the porch, listening to the quiet re- 
cital, I felt a shiver run through me. I had al- 
ways been romantic, dreaming of adventures and 
of weird happenings — just like many another 
convent-bred girl — but I never had imagined that 
I ever would meet a man who had killed an In- 
dian. I think my teeth must have chattered a 
bit, because I remember Will moving closer and 
saying to me: 

"Am I scaring you?" 

"No — not at all," I hastened to answer, "it's — ■ 
just a little chilly." 

"Shall we go in the house? 

"No — let's stay out here. And tell me some 
more. What happened next?" 

"Well, nothing much happened right then. 
The rest of the men came back and I immediate- 
ly got brave and told them how easily I had 
done the trick. And whether I was scared or 
not — it wasn't such very bad work, was it?" 

I admitted that it wasn't, and asked for more. 
For I had found some one who was infinitely 
23 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

more interesting than the Family Fireside. 
That was only so much paper. Here was a young 
man who had lived more adventures than the 
paper ever had printed. So he went on with his 
story: 

"I guess that must have initiated me, because 
things moved pretty fast after that. The In- 
dian must have been a lone scout, as we made our 
way to Fort Kearney safely, got the troops, 
started after the Indians, and went with them. 
But all we found was the place where the camp 
had been and the three bodies of the men who 
had been killed. The cattle were gone — as well 
as the Indians. So we buried our dead and went 
back to Leavenworth. 

"After that, I got a job as an extra hand with 
the wagon trains that were going across the plains 
for Russell, Majors and Waddell — they'd taken 
in a new partner and had about six thousand 
wagons and seventy-five thousand oxen. Some 
of the men abused me, and one tried to beat me 
one night, when a plainsman named 'Wild Bill' 
Hickok stepped in and helped me. He was about 
twenty years old then and had already killed 
three or four men, and when the rest of the train- 
men saw he'd taken me for a friend, they were 
24 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

afraid to abuse me any more. 'Wild Bill' and I 
are still friends. You'll meet him some day," he 
added with a queer inflection. 

"Why will I meet him?" I asked quickly. 

"You'll meet him, all right," Will answered. 
"Just wait and see." 

"I'd like to see how a man with a name like 
that looks," I confessed. "But go on. Tell me 
some more." 

"It's all about the same after that," he told me. 
"I became a bull whacker for a while, hunted 
buffalo, and then was a pony express rider. For 
a while I did some trapping on Prairie Dog 
Creek." 

"And did you kill any more Indians?" 

"Six or eight, maybe more." 

"Tell me about them." 

Will laughed. 

"You won't sleep a wink if I do. Anyway, 
there isn't so much to killing Indians. If you get 
the first shot, it isn't any trouble at all. Of 
course, if they surprise you, that's different. I've 
been in both fixes — but I got out all right. It 
was a lot worse up on Prairie Dog Creek. I 
broke my leg up there and had to lay in a dugout 
for twenty days while my partner hunted out 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

oxen that had strayed away. But still, I got 
along all right ; he'd laid my rations right beside 
me. Only, I got snowed in and it was pretty cold. 
So after that, I went back home and went to 
school for a while." 

"Is it very hard riding pony express?" I re- 
member asking. Will Cody laughed. 

"Well, try it once," he answered. "I rode three 
hundred and twenty-two miles once, with rest of 
only a few hours at a stretch." 

"When was that?" 

"Just a little while after I broke my leg." 

"Will Cody," I asked, "are you trying to fool 
me?" 

"I'm only telling you what happened," was his 
answer. "And I'm not going to hide anything — 
even the fact that I've been an outlaw." 

"You?" 

"My mother called me that. I thought it was 
honest and just. After I went to school for a 
while, I turned back to the plains, rode pony ex- 
press and handled wagon trains. Then the war 
broke out, and I went back to Leavenworth and 
joined Chandler's gang." 

"Chandler's gang — the horse thieves?" 

"I guess you've got the same opinion of it that 
26 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

my mother had," came slowly. "I didn't look 
at it that way. We only fought the slavers. And 
didn't I have cause to fight them?" he asked bit- 
terly. "Didn't one of them stab my father — and 
didn't he die from the wound? Didn't they hound 
us and harry us and keep us in misery every 
minute that my father was alive? I thought that 
I had a right to hound them too and drive off their 
horses and cattle and make life miserable for 
them. That's why I joined Chandler and became 
a jay-hawker. Then mother heard about it, and 
the next time I came home, she told me that it 
was wrong. And I quit. My mother always 
knew. The next year she died — and then I went 
into the army as a scout. I knew that was hon- 
orable." 

"And then you came to St. Louis," I broke 
in. 

"That's what I did. And a pretty girl slapped 
me in the mouth." 

"Well, you know I didn't mean to." 

"And said that my poetry didn't mean any- 
thing." 

"Well," I answered truthfully, "I couldn't get 
much sense out of it." 

"Maybe I couldn't put the sense into it," he 
27 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

said, and rose abruptly. "You see, I haven't been 
so sensible lately. A man never is when he's in 
love. Good-night." 

He stepped down from the porch and went 
down the street without looking back. But I 
watched after him, making his way through the 
shadows, watched after him with the happy, con- 
fident knowledge that only a girl can have when 
she has suddenly awakened to the fact that she is 
in love with a man — and that the man is in love 
with her. 



CHAPTER II 

However, the fact that I was in love with the 
man who later was to become Buffalo Bill did not 
mean that I had made up my mind to become his 
wife, if he asked me. I believe that neither of us 
were thinking of that then. In fact, in spite of 
our rather tumultuous entrance into a love affair, 
there was an element of steadiness about it all 
which we both realized and which we both under- 
stood. I had been reared in a convent. My 
range of vision had not been large, my scope of 
reading had always been toward the romantic and 
the adventurous, and I felt it natural that I 
should become fascinated by a man who had lived 
so eventful a life as William Frederick Cody. 
But whether subsequent events, new traits of 
character remaining to be discovered, other at- 
tributes of the nature of the man I loved almost 
before I knew him, would change my ideas to- 
ward him, I did not know, nor could I know until 
time had told its story. That was more than fifty 
years ago, as I have said. Time has since had its 
29 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

say, and to-day I feel toward the memory of 
Buffalo Bill as I did toward his living self that 
night on the porch in Old Frenchtown. He is 
still my ideal — yes, and my idol. 

As for Will, something of the same sentiment 
no doubt existed in him. He had been for years 
on the plains, where he had seen few women he 
could even respect, much less care for. Just prior 
to the time he met me, he had been in the army 
and had seen no feminine person at all that he 
could meet on a social basis. And therefore he 
had his grounds for consideration as well as I. 

And I must say that we occupied our time well 
in studying each other — though, of course, no one 
would have called our meetings exactly by that 
name. The next day Will was back at the house 
again, and the next after that. On the third day, 
I was sitting on the steps of the porch, dressed 
in my best, when one of the children of the block 
came to me and cuddled in my lap. 

"Who're you waiting for?" she asked in- 
nocently. 

"Oh, some one." 

"Is it the tall one?" 

"The tall one?" I parried evasively. 
30 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Yes, with the black hair, who walks so 
straight." 

I confessed. A second more and she was out 
of my lap and bounding toward the street. 

"That's who she's waiting for," she cried. "I 
knew it was — I knew it was. She's waiting for 
the tall beau, the handsome one." 

"Huh!" A boy who had been rolling a hoop, 
stopped and looked toward me and my reddened 
face. "Lookit her blush. Eee — yeh — yeh — she's 
waiting for her handsome beau and " 

"Tommie Francesco!" I called out, "you stop 
this instant. Don't you dare " 

But he had already gathered reinforcements, 
and a line of children was on the sidewalk, point- 
ing their fingers at me and crying: 

"Louisa's mad 
And I am glad 
And I know how to please her! 
A bottle of wine 
To make her fine 
And her handsome beau to squeeze her !" 

Then they scattered — for the "handsome beau" 

was coming down the street — scattered, leaving 

only the urchin of the hoop behind. I had started 

from the porch to paddle every one of them, and 

31 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

suddenly stopped, blushing and angry — and try- 
ing to keep from laughing at the same time. 
Will's voice boomed forth: 

"What's all this shouting down here?" 

"Oh, it's these children," I answered, "I wish 
they'd stay at home and " 

"We didn't do anything, Mister," broke in 
Tommie Francesco. "We just asked her who 
was coming to see her to-night, and she got mad 
about it." 

"Well," and Will chuckled, "you needn't ask 
her any more. If you want to know, I'll tell you. 
I'm the one that's coming to see her and if she'll 
let me, I'll be coming to see her every evening 
from now on. So run along and don't worry 
about it." 

Then, little thinking that he had spread the 
news of a practical engagement through the 
whole of gossipy, interested Frenchtown, he 
came chuckling and laughing to the porch. I 
guess my eyes were blazing, because he stopped 
and looked at me queerly. 

"Don't you know what you've done?" I asked. 

"No— what?" 

"Why, every one of those children will run 
right home and tell what you said." 
32 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Well," he boomed, "let 'em tell. It's the 
truth, isn't it?" 

And that was Will Cody, then and afterwards. 
His faith in humanity was almost childlike in its 
sincerity; his belief in the whole-heartedness of 
others was founded upon his own whole-hearted- 
ness and his generosity. 

Thus began our courtship — if we ever had one. 
I have often wondered whether a man and a 
woman who declare on their first meeting that 
they are to be married have a courtship or an 
engagement. Nevertheless, whatever it was, 
there were few hours of the day when we were 
not together during the month that followed his 
first visit to our house. He was at that time sta- 
tioned in St. Louis, awaiting the mustering out 
of his regiment, and passes were easily procur- 
able. The result was that every evening found 
me sitting on the bottom step of the porch and 
some child of the neighborhood hurrying along 
the walk to inform me that "my handsome beau" 
had just been sighted far down the street. 

Then came May 30, and his discharge from the 
army. That night we said good-by in the moon- 
light-splattered shadows of the old maples, and 
he hesitated as he started away. 
33 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"I want to ask you something — and if I asked 
you would you be mad?" 

"No, I won't be mad, Will. What is it?" 

"If I asked you to go back with me " 

"Wait," I told him, and ran into the house. I 
found a photograph and wrote on it, "Maybe — 
sometime," and took it out to him. "Look at this 
when you get back to your hotel," I told him. 
And then, very discreetly and very formally, we 
shook hands in good-by. As he went up the street 
— about a block away — I saw him take the pic- 
ture out from beneath his coat and look at it under 
the street-light, then go on again. 

The next morning I got a letter, and it con- 
tained another poetic effort. But I'm afraid that 
it wasn't the best in the world — even though I 
thought it very pretty at the time. Will had 
tried to work in the thought of "maybe sometime" 
in verse and it simply wouldn't fit into the meter. 
But, as I said, I thought it very good at the time, 
and never once did there enter into my mind the 
incongruity of a man who had earned a living by 
fighting Indians and undergoing hardships, writ- 
ing verse. Some way, it was the natural thing 
for him to do — for the West to-day is the best 
example I know that Buffalo Bill was a dreamer 
34 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

and a poet ; and the free, wild life he led was only 
an expression of the yearning of a thing that 
could not bear fettering. The West to-day is 
Buffalo Bill's dream come true, and when he 
died, there were thousands who testified to it. 

But in the spring of 1865, I was not thinking 
of those things, not stopping to analyze why an 
Indian fighter and a born adventurer should like 
poetry. I only knew that I was lonely and that 
I was in love and that I was falling more in love 
every day. Will had gone back to Leavenworth, 
Kansas, whence he wrote me of hunting and 
wagon-train trips, all made in the hope of gain- 
ing a little money for that "Maybe — sometime," 
and of the time when he could return to St. 
Louis. That time came sooner than either he or 
I expected. 

It was a brisk morning in October that I an- 
swered a knock on the door, to find him standing 
before me, his eyes old, his face haggard. There 
were lines about his lips, and his features had the 
appearance of one who had seen deepest suffer- 
ing. 

"Charlie's dead," he said simply as he entered. 
Charlie was his seven-year-old brother. Then, 
35 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

when we were alone, he told me why he had come 
to St. Louis. 

"You remember that I wrote you how much 
Charlie always liked your picture?" he asked. I 
nodded assent. 

There was a pause. 

"The little fellow died with it in his arms," 
came at last. "He asked for it — for the pretty 
lady — and when I gave it to him, he held it tight 
and we couldn't take it away from him again. 
And it made me realize more than ever just what 
you mean — to me. I've come to ask you for your 
promise." 

And I gave it. The next spring — March 6, 
1866 — we were married in the room where we 
had first met, with a few of the soldiers who had 
served in Will's company, and a small number 
of my friends present. Then to our honeymoon 
— a boat trip up the Missouri River to Leaven- 
worth, where we were to remain for a time at the 
home of Will's sister, Mrs. Eliza Meyers. 

And with our arrival on the boat, the old spirit 
of fun became uppermost in Will's mind again. 

"Haven't I seen that pilot before?" he asked 
me, pointing to the little deck-house. 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Yes," I told him, "you met him at our house 
the first week I knew you." 

"I thought so." Then a grin came across his 
features. "Listen, you go around this side of the 
boat and I'll go around the other. He doesn't 
know we're married, does he?" 

"Why, of course not. How should he?" 

"Oh, I don't know." He boomed it forth with 
such strength that I was afraid the entire boat 
would hear. "I just feel like the whole world 
ought to know I'm married. But we'll keep it 
secret long enough to have some f im. Hurry up 
around the side of the boat." 

"And then what?" 

"We'll meet just where he can see us and begin 
to flirt with each other and just see what he does." 

"Oh, Will— but all right." 

And around the boat I went, to meet him, pass 
him, drop my handkerchief and begin a flirtation 
of the most violent order. Nor was it long until 
the pilot was out of his little house, leaving the 
wheel in an assistant's hands until he could come 
downstairs and draw me to one side. 

"Do you think that's quite the thing to do, Miss 
Frederici?" he asked in a fatherly tone. 

"Oh, I believe you've made a mistake," came 
37 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

my cool answer. "I'm not Miss Frederici. I'm 
Mrs. William Frederick Cody, and the gentle- 
man to whom you're referring is my husband!" 

All of which was the beginning of festivities. 
Every boat in those days carried its musicians. 
Often they were the negroes who performed the 
heavy labor when the ship stopped at its landings. 
Nevertheless, with their banjos, and some one to 
thrum upon the piano, they could make good 
music, with the result that the pilot soon had ar- 
ranged for the orchestra, had gathered all the pas- 
sengers of the boat in the main cabin and Will 
and myself were ushered in and introduced. Then 
began the frolic, with a grand promenade to the 
Wedding March, Will and I leading the proces- 
sion. 

A voyage up the river in those days was not a 
swift affair. The old river steamer plodded along 
against the swift current of the muddy Missouri, 
stopping here and there to take on wood, or to 
unload some of its freight that it had brought 
from St. Louis. It was all very new to me. I, of 
course, had seen the steamers at the levee in St. 
Louis, and had taken short excursion trips on 
them — but nothing like this. 

It was like what I often have imagined an ex- 
38 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

plorer's trip on some unnavigated river to be. 
For hours and hours we made our way up the 
river, around sand bars, through narrows and 
muddy, swirling whirlpools, with never the sight 
of a house for almost a day at a time, only the 
ragged banks and the bluffs and scraggly trees 
of the unleaved woods beyond. Now and then, 
of course, we would reach some town, like the 
old village of Boonville, or Jefferson City, 
perched high on the bluffs. But as a rule the day 
was spent only in a succession of wildernesses. 

It all began to have its effect on me. Now I 
began to realize that I had said good-by to civili- 
zation, that the old comforts and safety of St. 
Louis might be a thing of the past forever. I 
knew now that I was going into this vague thing 
called the West, this place where roamed the 
antelope, the deer and the buffalo, where Indians 
still regarded the white man as an interloper, and 
where death traveled swift and sure. In spite 
of the gayety of the boat — for that evening dance 
had become a regular thing now — the thought 
clung to me and harassed me. And then came the 
climax. 

We were nearing the end of our journey and 
had stopped at a small, wild-appearing landing. 
39 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Some of the negro boys had lowered the gang- 
plank and were loading wood from a pile on the 
bank, while the remainder still twanged at their 
guitars in the cabin. Will and I had gone on 
deck to watch the loading and to listen to the 
negroes sing, for never was there a duty to be 
performed without its accompanying chants by 
the hurrying roustabouts, working in tune to 
their weird, high-pitched songs. 

Suddenly, we noticed a confusion on the bank, 
as of some one struggling. It was night, and the 
lamps of the boat threw only a faint glow upon 
the shore, the rest of the illumination being sup- 
plied by the swinging lanterns hanging from just 
above the gangplank, throwing us in the light as 
much as the shore itself. We heard cries, then 
shouting. 

Will rushed forward to the rail, calling back to 
me that it evidently was a quarrel between some 
of the settlers and the roustabouts. A shot 
crackled, and I felt my knees become weak be- 
neath me. Then again sounded a shot, followed 
by the cry of some one in pain, and I fainted. 

When I recovered, Will was holding me in his 
arms, kissing me, and calling to me. The trouble 
below had been quieted; faintly I could hear the 
40 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

creaking and scraping of the gangplank as it was 
shoved aboard again. The steamer's whistle 
tooted hoarsely, the paddles began to churn, while 
I clung to Will and trembled. Then as the old 
boat plowed its way out into the middle of the 
stream, I gained more courage and tried to laugh 
away my fears. 

A part of the returning courage, I must admit, 
came through the fact that the moon, which had 
been hidden by threatening clouds, came forth 
about that time, lighting up the muddy, swirling 
waters of the river, and changing their dirtiness 
to a silver sheen. The ragged banks, softened by 
the shadows, took on a more inviting aspect. But 
I'm afraid that even my show of courage was not 
sufficient to persuade Will that he had not made 
a terrible mistake in taking such a little tender- 
foot for a wife. 

Together we walked to the end of the deck, and 
stood there, watching the spray as it flew from 
the paddles in the moonlight. At last Will's arm 
went about my waist and he drew me to him. 

"I'm sorry, Lou," he said slowly. 

"For what?" I countered. "That I got fright- 
ened? I am too, Will. I — I tried not to be. But 

maybe it was just my nerves, and " 

41 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Will was looking far out into the river, to 
where an old tree was floating down with the cur- 
rent. I'll never forget that old black carcass of 
the forest. I watched it, too, watched it with the 
realization that it was floating downstream, back 
toward St. Louis, back toward home, where there 
were lights on the street corners and policemen 
and horse cars and safety. For a long time both 
of us were silent, then Will's arm gripped me a 
bit tighter. 

"Lou," he said, "I'm taking you into a new 
country, a strange country. I never thought 
about it much until — that trouble back there." 

"Neither did I, Will." 

"You won't have many conveniences out here." 

"I know it." 

"It won't be like it was back in St. Louis. 
There won't be many good women that you can 
associate with. There won't be many nice men. 
Everybody's pretty rough out here." 

"So you've told me, Will." 

"You're going to meet gamblers, and ruffians 
who have killed their man and who have mighty 
little in the world to recommend them except that 
they are helping to populate this country out 
here," he went on. "Maybe you won't under- 
42 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

stand it all at first — you may never understand 
it. You're going to be forced to live without a 
lot of the things that you have always had, and 
there may be times when there'll be dangers, Lou. 
That's why I want to talk to you about it now." 

I was silent a moment, then I caught his hand 
in mine and pressed it tight. 

"What was it you wanted to ask me, Will?" 

"Whether " and he hesitated — "whether 

you think you're going to be able to stand it." 

He was looking down at me, and my eyes went 
up to meet his. 

"I knew about these things before I married 
you, Will." 

"That's true. But you were in St. Louis then 
— and all you know about life out here was what 
you had heard. You've just seen an example of 
what it's liable to be. Not that I won't protect 
you," he added hastily, "because I will. I'll shield 
you all I can and I'll work hard for you and I'll 
try to be the husband that I should be to you — 
but this life out here is different from what it is 
in the cities. And — and — I thought that if you 
were afraid " 

"What?" 

43 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

He hesitated a long time. It seemed like hours 
to me. Then : 

"If you think you're not going to be able to 
stand my life, I'll try to stand yours. I don't 
know whether I could do it or not — but I'd try 
my best. Out here's my world. I'm at home out 
here — I can breathe and live. I love it — but I 
love you too. And I love you enough, Lou, so 
that if you tell me that you don't want to go, if 
you don't want to take the risk, we'll go back." 

If ever there came a test to me, it came then. 
I was homesick, I was frightened, I was going 
into a strange land. From a convent I was bound 
for a country where men often killed for the love 
of killing, where saloons and fights were common, 
where the life was coarse and rough and crude. 
I was going into a country where I would know 
nothing of the customs, nothing of the manner- 
isms, nothing of the best way in which to live my 
life and be free from the constant harrying of the 
environment into which I would be thrown. The 
tears came to my eyes. I wanted to cry to him 
that home was calling, that I cringed at the 
thought of what was before me. But instead, the 
heart of me gave an answer that I never re- 
gretted: 

44. 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Will, do you remember what the minister said 
when we were married?" 

"Yes," he burst forth with a sudden laugh, "he 
waited a minute and then said: 'Give me the 
ring!' And my fingers were all thumbs and I 
thought I never was going to get it out of my 
pocket." 

"No, I don't mean that. I mean what he said 
about us being together always." 

"Yes, I remember." And his voice was soft. 
"He said 'till death do us part.' " 

"Well, that's what I say to you now. You've 
asked me whether I'll go out there with you and 
stand the hardships that I may have to face, and 
I tell you that we have promised to remain to- 
gether until death do us part. I'll try not to be 
afraid again, Will." 

"And I'll try to shield you." 

And so we faced the new life together, stand- 
ing there on the deck of the old river steamer, 
watching the spray as it flashed from the paddle- 
wheels, Will making his pledge to watch after me 
in this new, crude world we were entering, I giv- 
ing my word that I would endure and abide by 
the laws of No Man's Land. And as we talked 
45 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

of it, Will gave me a new insight into his nature, 
a straighter, clearer view of his heart. 

"And it isn't all that this life out here is free," 
he said, "there's something more. The world isn't 
big enough for everybody that's in it. It's got to 
spread — and they'll want to come out here. 
Every day you can see the wagon trains starting 
across the desert. They're building the railroad 
through Kansas. They need men — who are 
rough and ready and who can fight their way 
forward and clear the path. 

"I know the West, Lou. I know every foot of 
it. And I've got to do my part. It isn't a very 
pretty place now, but there'll be towns some day 
out here almost as big as St. Louis, and I've got 
to help make the road clear for them. I'm work- 
ing for to-morrow, Lou — and I want you to help 
me." 

And again I gave my promise, while the old 
steamer plowed on, up the muddy Missouri to- 
ward Fort Leavenworth. And there, when the 
gangplank lowered, I found that Will had made 
his first step in trying to make my entrance to 
the West as easy as possible. 

He had telegraphed ahead — the telegraph ran 
then as far as the Kansas Pacific had built — to 
46 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

his sister, to summon as many of the officers and 
friends of the post to the landing to meet us. 
And they were waiting, with carriages and flow- 
ers and greetings and happiness. 

Instead of the Indians I had expected, were 
cultured men and cultured women, persons I had 
made up my mind to forget had ever existed. So 
strong had the thought of the lawlessness of the 
West fastened upon me that it had not entered 
my mind that there were others, just like myself, 
who were making the fight for civilization, that 
there were men and women, too, whose sole 
thought in life did not concern itself with gam- 
bling brawls and dance halls. I was almost 
hysterical with happiness when I went down that 
gangplank and ran forward to the arms of Will's 
sister, then turned to receive the introductions of 
the others who had gathered to greet me. And 
as Will and myself were bustled into a carriage, 
that old twinkle was again in his eyes and he 
squeezed my hand. 

"It isn't so terribly bad — yet, is it?" 

And I agreed that it wasn't. 

In fact, it was all very wonderful. Leaven- 
worth was glad to receive some one new — almost 
as glad as I to know that Leavenworth did not 
47 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

consist wholly of stockades and hurrying soldiers 
rushing out to meet Indian attacks. There were 
dances and parties and carriage rides and 

"Will," I said one night as I smoothed out the 
flounces of my "best dress." "What's wrong with 
you?" 

He looked at me quickly. 

1 'Nothing — why ?" 

"Yes, there is," I answered. "And I want to 
know what it is." 

He walked around the room a moment with his 
hands jammed deep in his pockets. 

"I'll tell you after the dance to-night," came 
at last. 

And so, when the dance was over and we were 
home again in Eliza's house, I asked the question 
once more. Will's look of worriment faded for 
a moment. 

"Lou," he questioned, with that old twinkle in 
his eye, "are you glad you married me?" 

"Why, of course." 

"And did you like that hack we rode in down 
to the boat?" 

"Yes, Will. But what's " 

"Did you have an interesting time coming 
here?" 

48 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Certainly. But why are you asking all those 
questions?" 

"Well." Then he smiled and walked around 
the room again. When he came back again, he 
stopped and looked straight into my eyes. "Well, 
because " 

Then he turned his pockets inside out. They 
were empty. 

"Broke," he said quietly. 

I stared. 

"And we haven't any money?" 

"Just enough for me to get out and get a job 
on — and for you to live until I can send you back 
some," he answered. "I've rented the old hotel 
down at Salt Creek Valley from Dr. Crook and 
you'll stay there. I'm — I'm going to get a job 
pushing a wheelbarrow." 

"Where? At the hotel?" 

"No. On the Kansas Pacific. They're look- 
ing for men now and I've got a family to sup- 
port. But " and he came forward quickly 

and kissed me — "I won't be pushing a wheelbar- 
row long. There's always something happening 
out here in the West." 



CHAPTER III 

The next day we said our good-bys and he 
started out for Saline, Kansas, then the end of 
the Kansas Pacific, where the road was being 
built on toward Denver. Long days intervened, 
and at last came a letter from him, saying that 
he had stopped at Junction City, where he had 
met his old friend "Wild Bill" Hickok, who was 
scouting for the government, with headquarters 
at Fort Ellsworth, and that he did not think he 
would stay long at the construction job, inasmuch 
as the government needed scouts, and that "Wild 
Bill" felt sure that he could obtain employment. 

The next letter I received told me that he and 
"Wild Bill" had visited Fort Ellsworth and that 
my husband had obtained his position. So 
throughout that winter, I received letters now 
and then, telling me how he had guided Gen- 
eral Custer from Fort Hays to Fort Larned 
straight across a country that was without trails 
and that the General had told him that if he ever 
was out of employment to come to him. 
50 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"I think that was very nice of the General," he 
wrote, "and I thanked him, telling him that I was 
a married man now and that I always would need 
a job to provide for my family." 

Then later came the news that Will had guided 
the Tenth Regiment in a terrific Indian fight near 
Fort Hays, in which a number of the soldiers, as 
well as Major Arms, were wounded and a retreat 
was made in the face of superior numbers of In- 
dians only with the aid of darkness. 

All of which was not the happiest news in the 
world for a new bride. Nor did the fact that 
cholera had broken out at Fort Hays, where my 
husband often was forced to visit, relieve the 
situation. More times than once in that first year 
was I forced to grit my teeth and fight back the 
discouragement that almost overwhelmed me. 
Then came a new viewpoint to life — in the per- 
son of our baby. 

It was December 16, 1866, when she was born. 
Away out on the plains somewhere was her 
father, undergoing hardships, I knew ; dangers of 
which I could only dream. But I was sure of one 
thing — that if Will was alive, if it were possible 
to reach him, he would come to me. I sent the 
51 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

word, by telegraph as far as the wires would 
carry it, by pony the rest of the way. 

Days passed. Then came the sound of hurry- 
ing feet, the booming of a big voice and I was in 
my husband's arms. His eyes were glistening. 

"Boy or girl?" he bellowed with that big voice 
of his. 

"A girl, Will," I answered. 

"What are we going to name it?" He had 
taken the covering from the baby's face and was 
jabbing a tremendous finger toward her eyes, 
causing me to believe every moment that he would 
make a slip and ruin her features forever. 
"What '11 we name her?" 

"Why, haven't you thought of a name?" I 
asked. 

"Me?" he stared wide-eyed. "Gosh, I'm lost 
there. The only thing I ever named was a horse 
and none of those names'd do, would they?" 

"Hardly. I've rather thought of the name of 
Arta." 

"Pretty name. 'Lo, Arta!" he roared — when 
Will became excited his voice was like a foghorn. 
Naturally, with this great being bending over her, 
shouting in his happiness, the baby began to cry. 
Will's face became as long as a coffin. 
52 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Kind of looks like she ain't pleased." came his 
simple statement, and I couldn't help laughing at 
the lugubriousness of his expression. 

"My goodness., neither would you like it if you 
had some one shouting in your ear. Xow, don't 
poke your finger in her eye! Don't you know 
how to act around a baby f 

"Xever got close enough before to take any les- 
sons." he confessed, "How do you lift her up, 
anyway?" 

And thus began a new lesson for my scout. He 
could ride anything made of horseflesh, he could 
tear a hole in a dollar flipped into the air and then 
hit it again with a rifle bullet before it touched the 
ground; he was at home in the midst of danger, 
and there had never been an Indian who could 
best him in a fight, but when it came to babies, I 
was the master. 

He was a willing student, but it was a hard 
lesson. More than once he turned to me, in utter 
discouragement. 

"'Crickets!" he would say, ''but they're sure 
bundly, aren't they? I'm always afraid of 
squashing her." 

''You ought to be, the way you're carrying 
her," I'd reply — when I wasn't laughing at his 
53 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

great-hearted, clumsy efforts to amuse the tiny 
little thing: "if you're so tired why don't you give 
her to me." 

'"Un-huh. No, I'm all right. We're getting 
along line." 

Then, when the baby would begin to cry. he 
would boom forth with that thunderous voice, 
png the only lullabies he knew, something 
along the order of : 

Shoo fly. don : : a me, 



Whereat, at the resumption of nev 
Id mournfully hand her over to me. and then 
.itching, like ■ boy with a new knife that he 
to touch. 
But the West calk 
D : on iii the care and 

culture of infants had been somewhat 

And when next I saw him 

It was months later that a wildly enthns istk 
man enten ?. 1 stared for a se: 

"0:" ill dungs, Will C .'_ . • hat's happa 
'I've become a m ; shouted 

came turned fed :' M 

"Become a millionaire, that's what I've 
54 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

i ; ■ e I What's more, we're going away from here, 
Wc own a town. now. R;z:e. Kshnss. I'm a 
h.il: :;.i::ifr ;: ::.'' 

•But " 

"Guess Td better start at the beginning.*' Will 
said exuberantly. "I was scouting around at the 
e::i ::' ::;e K ;.::?;. 5 P.:;.-. ;::: V; ?; Crrrk :.:r. 
I met a fellow named Bill Rose, a contractor. 
Well, we got to talking about towns and all that 
5:" ;: -'::::: z. .:::.: I k:::.: :: ^.i^esir.: :; iiuu :'::.:: 
it would be a pretty nice thing if he and I could 
get up a little town of our own. He thought the 
same way about it, so we put our money together 
and bought up some land out there for about a 
ik.ir .::: .i::e. .m.: :ke:: ~e : u: :'i~ : er :'.""- z :: 
a town on it." 

•"What's the beginning of a tc~ 

'Saloon and a grocery slave, Will laughed. 

ez Where ±ey 
are, the town will follow. And do you know that 
::::: :::~. he ^ivyfi .1 kr.ee ~ ".:!: ze iiiul. 
•Sre'Te got the finest little town that there is in 
the West? A hundred houses on it right this 
minute, and with us owning all land, when things 
get settled down a bit and we can get started 
charging rents and all that sort of thing, we'll 
55 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

have money rolling in hand over fist! Yes, sir! 
And what's more, we wouldn't let that skinflint 
of a railroad man come in on it either.'' 

"Who was that?'' His information, in its en- 
thusiasm, was rather coming in bunches. Will 
waved a hand. 

"Why — a railroad man. Said he was with the 
Kansas Pacific, and told us that inasmuch as the 
railroad was building its line out there that it 
ought to have half the town. Know what we 
said? We told him that we were fixing things 
for the railroad company and doing it good and 
that it ought to be darned grateful that we'd 
gone and built up a fine town for it to come to. 
But some way or other, he didn't seem to take 
to it very much. But Bill Rose and I weren't 
going to give him half our town. Xo sirree!" 

"I wouldn't either." I agreed. '"What right 
has the railroad company to ask you for half your 
town?" 

"Xone at all. That's just what I told him. 
You betcha we sent him hustling away all right. 
Guess you'd better start getting packed up. Cer- 
tainly a fine town out there. Bill and I thought a 
long time over the name. We finally decided on 
Rome, because Rome's lasted for a long time and 
56 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

we want our town to be remembered in history 
too." 

"It's a beautiful name," I agreed enthusiastic- 
ally. "When do we start out there f 

"Just as soon as we can get a few things packed 
up. Better not take too much out there at first." 

So the packing began and then Will, the baby 
and myself, started to make our first journey into 
the real West. At Saline, we left the Kansas 
Pacific, and I sighted long lines of great, cumber- 
some wagons, which waited by the side of the 
track. Will pointed. 

"That's ours — the third one. Come on, I'll 
help you into it." 

We made our way forward to the wagon, a 
tremendous thing, trussed and beamed, with a 
slope-shouldered, long-mustached man lounging 
on the front seat, the reins to twelve teams of 
mules hanging listlessly in his hands, his jaws 
churning with a tremendous cud of tobacco. One 
by one. Will boosted first me. then the baby, into 
the wagon and turned. 

"Bill Rose is around here somewhere — waiting 
for us. Got his wife with him," he said as he 
started away. "I'll hunt him up." 

I watched after him timidly, then looked again 
57 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

in the direction of the front seat. The black- 
mustached driver was still slumped forward, 
studying his mules, apparently thinking of noth- 
ing else in life. I looked out to see where Will 
had gone and watched in the direction in which 
he had departed. 

Presently I felt something touch my shoulder, 
something gliding and creeping. Quickly I 
glanced, then screamed at the sight of a black, 
snake-like something that was gliding toward the 
baby. Then I turned, and there came a chuck- 
ling, rumbling laugh, as the driver drew back 
his bull-whip and haw-hawed at me. 

"'Taint only me, Lady," he apologized. "Jest 
wanted t' tickle th' bebbe. Don't see many on 
them out here." 

I smiled, still quivering with fright, then 
brightened at the approach of my husband and 
his companions, William Rose and his wife. 

They climbed into the heavy wagon, the driver 
cracked the whip that had frightened me so much, 
and, rumbling and bumping, the start was made. 
For safety's sake, the wagons traveled in num- 
bers, rarely less than a dozen, each with its long 
string of mules before it, its drivers shouting and 
swearing, its yelling riders, its whips popping like 
58 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

rifle shots. "J. Murphy" wagons was their title, 
capable of carrying seven thousand pounds of 
freight each, and with their beds as large as the 
room of an ordinary house. Each was covered 
with two folds of heavy canvas, upon bentwood 
hoops, to protect the cargoes from the rain, and 
as I watched the ones traveling ahead of us across 
the prairie, they seemed like some great, wind- 
ing, fantastic serpent, whose vertebrae had become 
disjointed at intervals, writhing across the plains 
towards — where ? 

I watched a long time, noticing in a vague way 
that every man who rode past the wagon was 
armed with a heavy revolver on each side of his 
belt and a rifle slung across his saddle. Far away, 
out at each side of the train, other men were rid- 
ing, sometimes slowly and sometimes swiftly, and 
they too were armed. For a long time I did not 
realize the import of it all. Then it struck me 
— we were in the Indian country, and those out- 
riders were there for a purpose, to keep their 
keen eyes ever on the outlook for the approach 
of Indians, and to fire the shot that would send 
the long wagon train into a hastily constructed 
circle of defense. I turned to Will. 

"How would we know if there were Indians 
59 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

around?" I asked as calmly as I could. Will rose 
and pointed. 

"Easily enough. See those spots over on the 
hills about a mile away?" 

"Yes." 

"They're cattle— or buffalo." 

"How do you know?" 

"Because they either stay in one position, or 
move slowly around. An Indian does neither. 
He bounces up and down — you'll see him for just 
a second and then he disappears." 

"Why?" 

"It's their method of scouting — and that's the 
thing that gives them away. Never worry about 
an object you can see right along. But if you 
notice something bobbing up and down, just 
showing and then dropping out of sight, you 
holler and holler quick." 

And with my baby held tight to me, I watched 
the hills, watched until the last rays of the sun 
had faded, and the hills had disappeared in the 
darkness, without a sight of the thing I feared. 

But the worst uncertainty was still to come. 

The wagons had been drawn into their circle for 

the night, and the camp fires were blazing in the 

center, while the drivers and others were prepar- 

60 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ing the evening meal. With Mr. and Mrs. Rose, 
Will got out to stretch a bit and to assist with the 
work. I with my baby remained in the wagon, 
listening to the chaff of the men and to their con- 
versation. Two came nearby. 

"How does it look?" I heard one of them ask. 

"Oh, all right," came the voice of the other. 
"We're pretty well protected — as well as pos- 
sible, anyway. We've posted sentries every- 
where." 

"Well," the first driver took a hitch at his 
trousers, "I'll be glad when we're out of here, 
just the same. I never did like this Three Wells, 
even before the massacre." 

Three Wells! The name told its own story. 
It had only been a matter of months since the 
Indians had swooped down upon an emigrant 
train here, killed the drivers and the passengers, 
burned the wagons and driven off with the stock. 
Three Wells — I remembered how I had cringed 
at the horrors of the killings when I had read 
about them — even then a week old — in the news- 
paper at Fort Leavenworth. I had cringed then 
and been fearful. Now I was to spend the night 
on the very spot where that massacre had taken 
place. 

61 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

By and by the dinner was cooked and Will 
brought me forth, pale and trembling from the 
wagon. He looked at me queerly in the fire- 
light. 

"Aren't you feeling well?" he asked. 

"Fine," I answered, summoning a wan smile; 
"just — just a little tired, that's all." 

"Hey — " he turned and called to one of the 
wagon-men — "fetch my wife a little coffee, will 
you? She looks a bit weak." 

But when the coffee came, I could not drink 
it. My mind was on only one thing, that some- 
where, out there in the darkness, were the sunken 
spots of what once had been mounds of earth, 
where slept the victims of that massacre. The 
Indians had come in the darkness that night, 
silently crept forward until they had surrounded 
the train, then, with a sudden rush, killed the 
outposts and broken their way through to the 
inner defenses even before the men could reach 
their guns. And why should not to-night offer a 
chance for a repetition of it all? 

The fact that many and many a wagon train 

had passed this spot since the massacre occurred 

and done so safely, did not in the slightest degree 

allay my fear. My food cooled on the plate be- 

62 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

fore me, while my wondering husband sought 
to learn the cause of my indisposition. But I 
would not tell him. Back there, in our honey- 
moon days, I had promised that I would be brave, 
that I would accept his life and go where he went, 
and now that the time for me to prove my prom- 
ise had come, I did not intend to weaken. And 
so I smiled — smiled in spite of my dry throat, 
my fevered, parched lips, my anxious eyes that 
watched every shadow, my jangling, raw nerves 
that seemed to leap and jerk at the slightest 
sound. 

And that was only the beginning. Hours fol- 
lowed, hours in which men slept and mules 
brayed, hours in which I remained awake, watch- 
ing, watching, my baby held close to me, watch- 
ing and praying for dawn. 

At last the light dragged its way across the 
sky. The teams were again hitched to their 
wagons ; once more the bull-whips cracked in the 
air, the drivers and riders swore and we went on- 
ward. Then and only then, I dozed — safe at last 
from the ghostly, haunting memories of Three 
Wells. 

Throughout that day, Will and Mr. Rose 
talked incessantly of their town, how it would 
63 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

grow, how brick and frame buildings would re- 
place the shacks and tents which now stood there, 
and how the money would flow into their pockets 
in a never-ending stream. Night came again, 
with a moaning wind, and I slept fitfully, awak- 
ening with a start now and then, to rise from my 
bed in the old wagon, to gasp at the sight of the 
sentry, then to bury my head under the blankets 
and reason myself into a state approaching calm- 
ness that I might sleep. 

Again day, and again evening. The wagon 
train circled, and left us just at the edge of a 
hill. I looked apprehensively toward my hus- 
band. 

"Don't worry, Mamma" — he had adopted that 
name when the baby was born — "the town's right 
over the hill. We're as safe as bugs in a rug. 
Come on." 

Up the hill we started, toward our majestic 
entrance into our town of Rome. We made the 
top, and the two men dropped their arms aghast. 
The moon was shining, shining down upon what 
once had been Rome, with its hundred or so 
shacks, and tents. But Rome — Rome, the glori- 
ous, had roamed away. Only the shack which 
sheltered the saloon remained, its lights glowing 
64 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

on the scattered debris of where a town once had 
stood. Rose turned gasping. 

"I — I wonder what's happened," he asked 
haltingly. Will rubbed his chin. 

"This is the place all right," he answered after 
a moment of gazing about him, "everything's 
here — there's the butte over there and — and 
everything. It's all here but the town!" 

And certainly the town had disappeared. 
Hurriedly we made our way down the hill, Will 
in the lead, carrying the baby. He ran to the 
door of the saloon and banged upon it, finally to 
bring forth the bartender. 

"What's become of the town?" he asked ex- 
citedly. The bartender grinned. 

"Didn't you hear about it? It all moved away, 
about a week ago. The railroad started up a bet- 
ter town over by Fort Hays and let it out that 
it wouldn't come anywhere near here. So every- 
body pulled up stakes. This is the only place 
that's left." 

Huddled in a wondering little group outside 
the circle of light, we heard the news. For a 
moment none of us could say anything. Will 
and Mr. Rose walked up and down looking at 
the bits of tenting, the scraps of tin, the scattered 
65 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

papers which told the story of their town that 
had disappeared. Then Mr. Rose came back to 
where his wife and I stood disconsolately wait- 
ing. 

"There's only one thing to do, I guess," he said 
at last, "and that's to walk over to the fort." 

I thought of the Indians. 

"If Will's willing — I guess we'll stay here," I 
said; "maybe we can find a tent or something." 

Mr. Rose went back and talked to Will. Then 
he and his wife said good-night to us. Will gave 
me the baby and went into the saloon for a mo- 
ment. Then he hurried back to me. 

"There isn't a tent around here," he told me, 
"but the bartender says that there's a cot in the 
back room. You can have that and I'll sleep on 
the floor. Come on — the door's around this 
way." 

Together we made our way in the semi-dark- 
ness, to halt suddenly at the sight of a hurrying 
figure. A negro's voice came to us. 

"Hello dar." 

"Hello yourself. Who're you looking for?" 

"Marse Cody." 

"That's me. What's wrong?" 

The negro hurried forward and saluted. 
66 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Major Arms done sent me oveh heah t' see 
ef you kem, yit. He wants yo' at de fo't." 

Will turned and looked at me. 

"Are you afraid?" he asked quietly. Again I 
summoned a smile. 

"No, Will," I answered. "I'm not afraid." 

"And I can go to the fort knowing that you'll 
not be worried — and that you'll feel that you'll 
be protected if anything happens?" 

"I'm not afraid," I answered again. He 
brought something from his pocket. 

"Here are the keys," he said, "one to this door 
and one to the door leading into the saloon. There 
are some bull-whackers and gamblers in there 
now. They may become noisy but they won't 
hurt you. And you're sure you're not afraid?" 

I had to grit my teeth to summon the courage 
to say the words, but I managed it. Then Will 
opened the door for me, lit the dingy kerosene 
lamp, kissed the baby and myself and was gone. 
I was alone — alone in the back room of a frontier 
saloon. 

For a moment, I could only stand and look 

about me, staring at the crude pictures on the 

walls, the dingy little windows, the rickety door. 

Then I gained enough courage to creep to the 

67 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

door leading to the saloon and assure myself it 
was locked. After that I locked the door lead- 
ing to the outside, and, extinguishing the lamp, 
laid down on the cot, fully dressed, with my 
baby hugged tight to me. 

Outside in the saloon, men were talking and 
cursing. I could tell by the noise from the end 
nearest me that a gambling game of some kind 
had been established and that the men were 
drinking and quarreling as they played. Trem- 
blingly I heard them shouting invectives at each 
other, and cringed at the language. Then some 
one asked: 

"How about that woman? Is she still around 
here?" 

Another voice, evidently that of the bartender, 
answered: 

"Cody's wife? No, they went over to the fort. 
A soldier was just in here and said that Major 
Arms had sent him to get Cody and that he'd 
met them just going in the door." 

"I'm glad of that," came the first voice, "this 
isn't any place for women. I don't want 'em 
around here anyhow!" 

And if he had only known how little I wanted 
to be there! But he had no chance of learning. 
68 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

My strength had gone. All I could do was to lie 
on that rickety cot and hope for morning. 

The noise soon began again and the quarreling 
at the gambling table grew louder. Suddenly I 
leaped, straight in the air, it seemed. The sound 
of scuffling had come from the other room, fol- 
lowed by the bark of a revolver shot. It had been 
no worse than I had expected. My imagination 
told me what was outside the door — the crumpled 
body of a man, huddled on the floor, the revolver, 
its smoke trailing upward — blood 

Then the baby began to cry, and I was thank- 
ful for the cursing and yelling that was coming 
from the barroom. Vainly I tried to still her. 
She only cried the louder. And with her sobs, I 
dully realized that the noise from the other side 
of the door was lessening. Plainly I heard some 
one say: 

"Listen— what's that?" 

Then absolute stillness, except for the fright- 
ened screams of the child. It lasted for one of 
the longest moments of my life, followed by a 
muffled mumbling that I could not interpret. At 
last I heard the steps of men, as though they were 
on tiptoe, and a slight knock on the door. I did 
not answer. Again it came — and again. I 
69 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

struggled to reply, but, for a moment, the words 
simply would not come. At last I managed to 
get out: 

"Who's there?" 

"It's only us," some one called, in a voice that 
was trying terribly hard to be pleasant; "we 
didn't know any body was in there. Where's 
Cody?" 

"He's gone to the fort." I said it before I 
thought. 

But the answer reassured me. 

"We're plum sorry we made the baby cry. One 
of us got to scuffling around and his shootin' iron 
went off. Ain't nobody hurt. We're awful 
sorry we disturbed you." 

The news that the killing I had imagined had 
not happened after all brightened my life con- 
siderably. And I knew from the tone outside the 
door, that the barroom, tough and rough though 
it might be, was standing in humble penitence. 

"That's all right," I answered. "The baby's 
stopped crying now." 

There was another moment of apparent con- 
sultation. Then the knock came again. 

"Mrs. Cody!" 

"Yes." 

70 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Be you dressed?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you reckon you could stand it t' let us in? 
We'd powerful like to see that baby o' Bill's." 

Somewhat fearfully I rose and pawed about at 
the side of the old kerosene lamp, at last to find 
an old "eight-day" match and light it. Then I 
opened the door. 

About ten men stood there, dirty, unkempt, 
bearded, their hats in their hands. They looked 
at me with a sort of bobbing bow as I faced them, 
then timorously, and even more fearfully than I 
had walked, they stepped into the room. One 
by one they involuntarily lined up, somewhat 
after the fashion of persons passing a bier. Then 
they gathered near the cot where little Arta lay. 

Silently they watched her a moment, their lips 
grinning behind their heavy, scraggled beards. 
Then, in a half embarrassed way, one of them 
stuck out a finger. Arta reached for it, caught 
it and laughed. The bearded one's face beamed. 

"Look at the little !" he ex- 
claimed, then, suddenly realizing his oaths, pulled 
away his finger and faded in the protection of 
the rest of the group. The others looked about 
them with pained expressions, understanding for 
71 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

once that here was a place where profanity was 
not fashionable. At last, the bartender, being 
more of a man of society than the others, wiped 
his hands on his dirty apron, and, turning to me 
with a wide grin, asked: 

"Pretty baby, ain't it? What is it, a him or 
a she?" 

"She's a girl," I answered as quietly as I could. 

"Kind of thought it was. Kind of looked like 
it. Mind if we sort of dawdle around with her? 
Babies ain't much of a crop out here." 

And so they stayed and "dawdled" — great, 
powerful children in the baby hands of the little 
child that lay on the cot. Then, one by one they 
turned and thanked me, the bartender again wip- 
ing his hands on that greasy apron. 

"We're plum sorry about making her cry," he 
apologized for the fourth or fifth time; "we 
thoughten you and Cody'd gone over to the fort. 
We're plum sorry about it. But you and the 
young 'un trot on to bed now. There ain't no 
business to-night anyway and these fellows want 
to go back to the fort. I'll set up in the bar- 
room." 

"You goin' to shet down?" One of the group 
72 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

asked the question as though it were a sacrilege. 
The bartender wiped his hands again. 

"Yep," he answered with an air of cold finality, 
"I'm going to shet down." 

They turned and tiptoed out, the bartender 
closing the door behind him as he apologized for 
the last time. For a moment or so, I heard the 
group loitering about the saloon, evidently tak- 
ing their last drink for the night. Then came 
their good-bys, and the slamming of the front 
door. Finally, only the steps of the bartender 
echoed through the place, and at last the scraping 
of a chair as it was tilted against the wall. The 
bartender, true to his promise, was "setting up," 
and there Will found him the next morning, snor- 
ing in his chair. 

Will's news was not the best in the world. He 
had been out most of the night on a scouting 
expedition, and the Major had informed him that 
morning that he would like, if possible, to have 
him accompany him on a hunt, as meat was get- 
ting scarce at camp and some buffalo had been 
sighted nearby. Our home in Fort Hays, he 
told me, must be a tent for a while, until we could 
go to the Perry Hotel, every room of which was 
73 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

at that time occupied. So to our tent in Fort, 
Hays we went. 

That domicile was near the camp of the sol- 
diers, members of a negro regiment. For sev- 
eral days Cody remained there, and then came the 
order for the hunt, while Major Arms designated 
twenty men who were to act as guards about my 
tent and protect me. But for some reason, the 
guards did not perform their duties. 

It was late one night when I was aroused by 
the sounds of shouting and quarreling. Some 
members of the regiment, passing my tent, had 
met another contingent with which they had 
quarreled previously and had decided to fight it 
out. 

Perhaps the guards were there, perhaps they 
did their best — all I know is that almost before 
I realized it, my tent was the center of the 
struggle and forms were all about me, tearing at 
each other, knocking the tent down about me, and 
constantly placing me and my baby in the danger 
of being trampled to death. I reached for a re- 
volver that Will had presented to me, which he 
had given me some instructions in aiming during 
our old courting days in St. Louis. Hurriedly I 
picked up the baby in one arm, and, fighting my 
74 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

way clear of the folds of the canvas, made my 
way into the open. 

"Get back there," I cried. "I've got a gun and 
know how to use it. Now get back!" 

A soldier turned and struck at me, knocking 
the gun from my hand. From across the way, an 
old man, seeing my predicament, ran to my as- 
sistance, only to be knocked down and kicked 
into insensibility. Vainly I cried and screamed 
for help — it seemed that it would never come. I 
sank to my knees, then struggled to my feet 
again. 

From down the street came the shouting of 
orders and the blurred forms of men. Almost in 
an instant the milling figures about me started to 
run as a detachment from the fort hurried after 
them to put them under arrest. But the damage 
had been done as far as I was concerned. 

The limit of my endurance had been reached. 
I had held my nerve as long as holding it was 
possible. I had striven my best to keep the word 
I had given on the boat, back in the days just 
after our wedding — I had tried to be brave; but 
the force of circumstances had been too much for 
me. Will returned from his hunt, to find me col- 
lapsed from the strain, hysterical and nerve- 
75 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

wrecked. Furiously he set out to gain vengeance 
on every man who had participated in the fight — 
but that was impossible. Then, white-faced, 
trembling with anger, he returned to my bedside. 

"Mamma," he told me, "it's a good thing I 
didn't find them. I would have killed them. I'm 
sorry." 

"Will," I answered, "you don't need to be 
sorry. It wasn't your fault." I reached out and 
took his hand. "I just couldn't hold up any 
longer. I tried to be brave — honestly I did." 

"You were brave," he said, and there was a 
tenderness in his voice that gave recompense for 
all I had endured; "braver than ever I dreamed. 
And I'm as proud of you as I am sorry that this 
happened." 

I was in the hotel now, having been taken there 
by the guard detachment that had insisted on a 
place for me, and Will proclaimed to the man- 
agement with a forcefulness not to be resisted, 
that there I would stay, congestion or no con- 
gestion. Will had his way — as he usually did 
when he narrowed his eyes and set his head square 
on his shoulders, with the result that the days 
that were to come were to be far happier ones 
in many ways than I had known for months. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

And especially were they happy in the fact 
that I had passed through my baptism of fire, 
that I had seen the West in some of its worst at- 
tire, and that, with the exception of the break- 
down following the fight around the tent, I had 
managed some way to pull through. Greater, 
even than that, was the knowledge that I was to 
be near my husband, that I would know by 
courier if accident should befall him on any of his 
hunting and scouting trips, and that I would not 
be subject to nerve-racked weeks, until a letter 
should tell me whether he was alive or dead. 



CHAPTER IV 

And there were happy days to come, days that 
were full of brightness and enjoyable incident, in 
spite of the fact that my health had been broken 
by the nervous strain I had undergone, in spite 
of the hardships of the life, and the tatterde- 
malion excuse for a town in which Will and I 
made our home. Fort Hays — or Hays City, as 
it now is known, was not a choice metropolis in 
those days. Like my husband's unfortunate town 
of Rome, it had grown practically overnight, from 
a short-grassed stretch of prairie to a conglomer- 
ation of tents, shacks, frame buildings, gambling, 
whisky and soldiery. The population had swelled 
from nothing into hundreds, gathered from the 
plains and from the farther West: scouts, hunt- 
ers, men who had stopped on the way to the West, 
and those who had dropped from the trail on the 
way back East after their failure to glean the 
gold of California or the wealth of Colorado. 

A sort of clearing house for the best and for 
the worst was Hays in those days. The Perry 
78 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Hotel, in which Will and I made our home — if 
a shell of a building, with partitions extending 
only part way to the ceiling, with no carpets, with 
clapboarded walls and scant furnishings, can be 
called a home — was the place of registration for 
high army officials, for famous plainsmen, for 
gun-toters and man-killers, for soldiers of for- 
tune and soldiers of the regular army, for gam- 
blers, early day get-rich-quick- Wallingfords, for 
professors, ne'er-do-wells, college graduates, rail- 
road men, hunters, and every other phase of hu- 
manity. The streets were only openings between 
rows of shanties and tents, where, in every third 
habitation, men crowded about the rough-board- 
ed bars or heaped their money upon the gambling 
tables. 

Toneless, clanging pianos, appearing miracu- 
lously from nowhere, banged and groaned in the 
improvised dance halls. Men quarreled and 
fought and killed. The crowded little streets, 
with their milling throngs, suddenly would seem 
to be cleared by magic — except for two men, one 
standing with his revolver still smoking, the other 
a crumpled heap in the dust. Then a rush for a 
horse, the soft clud of hoofs and only one form 
would be left— an object for the consideration of 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

a quickly assembled coroner's jury, and a ver- 
dict of: 

"Death from gunshot wounds." 

And not always did the winner of the duel seek 
safety in the number of miles placed between him 
and the pursuing posse. More often, in fact, he 
would wait until the street filled again, and the 
friends of the loser carried away the body. Then 
he would turn to the half admiring crowd with 
the simple statement: 

"It was either him or me, boys. Had to do it. 
I guess it's time for me to buy. Let's have a little 
red liquor and forget it." 

Whereupon another notch would find its way 
into the handle of a killer's gun, one of the many 
canvas-covered saloons would do a rushing busi- 
ness for an hour or so, and the next day there 
would be a new grave in the little cemetery just 
out of town. One man more or less made little 
difference in the West of those days. Each 
played his own game, each made his own laws, as 
long as he could enforce them, and each appar- 
ently was accountable to only one thing — Death. 

Strangely enough, in spite of my nervousness, 
and the weakened condition in which my ordeal 
in the tent had left me, I found myself little af- 
80 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

fected by all this. I had accepted the West; I 
had learned that these conditions existed and that 
there was seemingly no cure for them but time, 
and no attitude to assume except that of indif- 
ference. 

Not that I did not realize the status of the en- 
vironment into which I had been thrown, nor that 
Will did not know and understand what it all 
meant. We both knew and we both understood, 
and never was a woman more carefully guarded, 
more thoroughly shielded than I. Through Will's 
efforts, orders had gone forth that I must never 
leave the hotel without the company of an officer 
and a competent guard, and that should any harm 
come to me, through the laxity of that guard, it 
would be cause for a general court-martial and 
the strictest disciplinary action. The result was 
that I saw all that Fort Hays had to offer in the 
looseness of its lawless youth, yet suffered none 
of the consequences. 

My fright and the shock to my nervous system 
had left me weak physically and with little nerv- 
ous resistance. Will watched over me with all the 
tenderness and care that a mother would exert 
over her child. Incidentally, one of the first 
things that he had done was to procure for me 
81 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the services of a young Vassar graduate — and 
how she had ever chosen Fort Hays as a place in 
which to live is more than I can understand — to 
care for Arta and to take from my mind all the 
worry and care of the baby. 

By special permission, Will's hunting and 
scouting trips had been shortened considerably, 
with the result that he was seldom gone from 
Hays City for more than a few days at a time. 
In those days I would sit by the window of the 
rickety little hotel, watching the life of the tented, 
shack-lined streets, listening to the crack of the 
bull- whips as the heavy wagon trains rumbled 
through, to the banging of the pianos from the 
dance halls, the shouts and laughter from the 
saloons and gambling "palaces," waiting, waiting 
for Will to come home again. Then would come 
the clickety-clud of hoofs, the sight of a rushing 
figure, the form of a man who swung from his 
saddle and was on the ground even before his 
horse had stopped, the booming of a big voice as 
a giant figure came up the stairs — and I would 
be in my husband's arms again. 

Then would follow glorious, happy days, in 
which he would put a side-saddle on his favorite 
horse, Brigham, and we would ride, far out into 
82 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the prairie. There Will would bring forth his 
heavy, cumbersome six-shooter from its holster, 
and hand it to me. 

"The next time anything happens," he said, 
more than once, "I want you to shoot — and shoot 
to kill. Now, let's see whether your aim's im- 
proving. Bang away!" 

Whereupon he would select a target, which to 
me seemed miles away, and with the most bland, 
child-like expression, tell me to hit it. 

"Hit that?" I would ask. "Why, Will, a per- 
son couldn't hit that with a rifle, let alone a six- 
shooter." 

Will's eyes would open wide, and a half-smile 
would come to his lips. 

"Give me that gun," would be his answer. A 
swing, a sudden steadying of the wrist, and a 
burst of smoke. Then Will would turn to me 
with a courtly bow. "Please go look at the tar- 
get," he would ask. And invariably there would 
be a bullet hole in its center. 

But the same thing did not happen when I 
shot. It was true that he had taught me some- 
thing of the art in St. Louis and in Leavenworth 
— but did you ever try to swing a heavy .44 cali- 
ber six-shooter through the air, bring it down to 
83 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

a level, get your aim and pull the trigger in less 
than a second? Will would not let me shoot any 
other way. 

"It's quick work out here in the West," was 
his constant reminder. "You don't shoot unless 
you have to — and then you shoot quick. Now, try 
it again." 

Following which I would bang away with the 
old gun until my wrist, my arm, even my shoulder 
would ache from its terrific kick. Day after day 
we went to the target "range," with the inevitable 
result that gradually I learned the knack of as- 
sembling several faculties simultaneously, and 
executing the aiming of the gun, the pulling of 
the trigger and the assimilation of the recoil, all 
at once. The targets began to show more and 
more hits. Then, one day, Will nodded approv- 
ingly. 

"From now on," he said, "you'll shoot on the 
run. Let's see you hit that target with Brigham 
going at a gallop." 

And so, a new school of instruction began — 
and then a new one after that. Even little Arta 
did not escape the rigors of the schooling which 
my husband had determined to give me. As soon 
as I had learned to shoot from the back of a 
84 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

horse, and to shoot both deliberately and by sim- 
ply snapping the hammer, Will gathered the 
baby in his arms one day and took her with us. 

'Tut Arta on your lap," he ordered. "Now 
— that target over there is an Injun. You've had 
to take a ride, and just as you come home, this 
old Red Pepper bobs up on you. I want you 
to spur Brigham into a gallop and put a bullet 
through that old reprobate's head." 

"All at once?" I asked vaguely. 

"Why, of course," my husband answered as 
though it were the most natural thing in the 
world. "You know, if that Injun's out for busi- 
ness, he ain't going to wait for an invitation be- 
fore he starts shooting. Gad!" — he had caught 
the expression from a college professor, and was 
using it in almost every sentence — "I'll bet a 
buffalo hump you can do it the first time." 

But Will was a bad better. I missed the first 
time, the second, and consecutively up to about 
the hundredth, while Arta, laughing and clapping 
her hands — yet shivering at every blast of the 
old six-shooter — called for more. Will looked at 
me ruefully. 

"I guess there's only one thing for me to do. 
85 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

That's to get rich. I'll never pay for your car- 
tridges any other way. Try it again." 

I did — and this time I nicked the target. Then 
began a system of hit and miss, until at last I 
could gallop by the target at full speed and put 
a bullet so near it, at least, that it would not have 
been comfortable for a human being. Even Will 
was satisfied. "I'll feel easier now, when I'm 
away," he said simply as we made our way back 
to town, and I knew what was in his mind. He 
still was thinking of that day when he had come 
home, to find me screaming with hysteria, as a 
result of the attack of the soldiers. And, I must 
admit, I felt a great deal more comfortable 
myself. 

So were the days spent. At night the "lobby" 
of the little hotel would be filled with officers and 
scouts, and the few women of the town who oc- 
cupied a social position that goes with the term 
"a good woman." I am afraid that in those early 
days of Fort Hays, just as it was in every other 
frontier town of the West, the good women were 
few and far between. But, in spite of the fact 
that we who clung to the conventions and who 
took pride in the fact that we held a position in 
our own esteem, were far fewer in number than 
86 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the painted, bedizened persons who leered from 
the doorways of the dance halls and who, more 
than once, played one man against the other for 
the sheer joy of seeing the swift flash of revolvers, 
the spurting of flame, the crumpling of a human 
form and the spectators who would point her out 
as a woman for whom one man had killed an- 
other; in spite of these conditions, there were 
enough of us to have our little sewing bees, our 
social functions, such as they were, and to "go 
round," when the dining-room of the Hotel Perry 
was cleared of its rough tables and rickety chairs 
for the weekly dance. 

And such dances! High on a hastily impro- 
vised rostrum would be the fiddlers and perhaps 
some wandering accordion player, squeaking 
away for all they were worth, their fiddles — 
they could, under no stretch of the imagination, 
be called violins — scratching out the popular mu- 
sic of the time, such as the "Arkansas Traveler," 
"Money Musk," and the other quickstep music 
of that day, while out before them would be the 
most energetic person at the dance, red faced, his 
arms waving, the veins standing out on his neck, 
his voice bawling: 

"Ladies-s-s-s-s-s right, gents left! Swing-g-g- 
87 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

g-g-g yo' podners, one an' all, do-se-do an' round 
th' hall!" 

It was just before one of these dances that Will 
came hurrying to our room, his eyes bright with 
excitement. 

"Put on your best bib and tucker," he an- 
nounced. "We're going to have some celebrated 
visitors at the dance to-night." 

"Who?" I asked. 

"Texas Jack and my old pardner, Wild Bill 
Hickok." 

"The killer?" 

"Yes. He don't dance much, but he said he 
was going to dance with Bill Cody's wife if he 
broke a leg. And I want you to look your pret- 
tiest." 

"For a killer? Why, Will, I'd be afraid to 
death of him." 

Will shrugged his shoulders. 

"Wait 'till you've seen him first." 

I must admit that my toilette that evening was 
not accomplished with any great joy. The stories 
of Wild Bill Hickok had been many and varied. 
The notches on his gun were almost as numerous 
as the accounts of his various battles. Wild Bill 
Hickok had never been known to snap the ham- 
88 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

mer of his revolver without a death resulting. 
And I had been promised to him that night for a 
dance ! 

For one of the few times in my life I was angry 
with Will Cody, my husband. I pouted all 
through the evening meal, and when Will asked 
me the trouble, I told him without much equivo- 
cation. But Will, humorist that he was, only 
grinned. 

"Just like a woman," he said with a chuckle. 
"Get mad at her poor husband before she knows 
all the facts of the case." Then he became seri- 
ous. "Lou," he said, "do you remember that time 
in St. Louis when I was telling you about my 
boyhood? Remember how I told about the man 
who had protected me when the bull-whackers of 
the wagon train had made up their minds to make 
my life miserable? If you remember that, you'll 
also remember the fact that the man who came 
to my assistance was Wild Bill Hickok. When 
I saw him to-day, he asked for a dance with you. 
Could I — or should I — have said 'no'?" 

My little fit of anger was over. 

"Forgive me, Will," I answered. "I'll dance 
with him — even — even if I will be afraid every 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

second that he'll pull out a revolver and start 
killing everybody on the floor." 

Again Will chuckled. And he was still chuck- 
ling when he reached the room — nor would he tell 
me the reason. 

The hours passed. The fiddlers ascended their 
rostrum, the caller took his place and the dance 
began. Chills were running up and down my 
spine — I was soon to dance with a man who had 
a reputation for killing just that he might see 
men die, and who was supposed to have defied 
every law ever made by God or man. A dance 
went by, hazily. Then two and three. Suddenly 
there was a craning of necks, and I saw Will, as 
though from a great distance, talking to some 
man who had just entered. A moment more and 
Will had hurried to my side. 

"Come with me, Lou," he ordered. 

I obeyed dully, hardly seeing the faces about 
me as I walked forward. 

Then suddenly I blinked. Will was speaking, 
and a mild appearing, somewhat sad-faced, 
blond-haired man had bent low in a courtly bow. 
Faintly I heard Will say: 

"Allow me to present Mr. William Hickok, 
Wild Bill." 

90 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

And this was Wild Bill! I had looked for a 
fiendish appearing, blaek-haired, piereing-eyed 
demon, and had found a Sir Walter Raleigh. 
Almost gaspingly I told him I was glad to meet 
him — and I was most assuredly glad to find him 
a different sort of man from the one I had sup- 
posed. In a mild, quiet voice, he told me that 
he had made a request of my husband — and then 
added : 

"But, of course, you're the final judge. Do 
you think that you could manage to dance a 
quadrille with me?" 

"Most assuredly." And I meant it. I could 
have danced the Highland Fling, I believe — so 
happy was I to find mildness where I had been 
led to believe would be the most murderous of 
persons. Instinctively I looked for revolvers. 
There were none — not even the slightest bulge at 
the hips of the Prince Albert he wore. I was 
happier than ever. 

We danced. And I must confess that we 
danced and danced again until Will laughingly 
put a stop to it. And, of course, it was just like 
Will to say: 

"And you said you wouldn't dance with a 
killer 1" 

91 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Will!" I broke in, for the eyes of Wild Bill 
had turned with a sharp, quick look — the look of 
a man when he realizes his reputation, and feels 
the shame of it. There was a moment of silence. 
Then Wild Bill looked at me with a little smile. 

"You've been hearing stories?" he asked. 

"Yes," I confessed. 

"Do I look like the kind of a man who would 
shoot unless he had to?" 

"No," I confessed, and I meant it. And what 
was more, that was the truth. More than once, 
throughout the West, I have found persons who 
have talked of Wild Bill as a killer of men who 
was not happy unless he saw the body of a human 
being huddled before him. But that was not the 
truth. Now that my interest was aroused, I 
learned Wild Bill's real story from those who 
knew him, and the only murder in his life was 
the one in which he himself was killed — he was 
shot in the back during a card game at Dead- 
wood, S. D. 

He was a gambler, it is true. So were they all 
in the early days of the West. A gun-fighter, a 
dangerous man once his anger went to the steam- 
ing point, and as deadly with his revolver as a 
cobra with its bite — such was Wild Bill. Many 
92 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

were the notches on Wild Bill's gun for the rea- 
son that he never missed, that when he pulled 
the trigger, his opponent fell, never to rise again. 

Perhaps, all this, coming from a woman, sounds 
hard and cold and heartless. It is not. It is sim- 
ply the echo of days that are gone, days in which 
one was obliged to follow the customs of the coun- 
try — or leave. I had seen my share of lawless- 
ness; gradually and surely it had been forced 
upon me that I was living in a country where 
Death came swiftly and frequently, and where 
human life was of little worth. Viewed from a 
cold standpoint, it might be compared to the rate 
of exchange in a foreign country where the unit 
of money is of small value. One does not have 
the same respect for it that he does for his own 
unit of wealth. Had these same things happened 
in a place of civilization, I would have been in 
constant terror. But I was in the West now, a 
different land. And I accepted it all. 

I was growing a little stronger physically, and 
Will now and then would venture to take me out 
to the races, which were a constant occurrence in 
Fort Hays. Naturally, they were not such races 
as one sees to-day, with great grandstands, silk- 
clad jockeys, Paris-gowned women and the thou- 
93 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

sand and one evidences of luxury. They were in 
keeping with the West, built upon Western lines 
and — but let the description come in its proper 
place. 

It all began when Will rushed to me with a 
great idea. 

"Just happened to think of something, Lou!" 
he announced. "I want to make a good showing 
w T hen you come out to that race Saturday, and I 
just happened to think that there ain't a soul in 
town that can sport a jockey suit." 

"So I'm to make you one?" 

"That's just it," he said enthusiastically. 
"Look! I've already bought the goods!" 

He dragged a parcel from beneath his arm, and 
pulled away the paper. There, flaming up at me 
was the brightest, most glaring piece of red flan- 
nel that I ever had seen in my life. It simply 
seemed to blaze — almost as much as the enthu- 
siasm in Will's eyes. 

"I guess that'll make 'em know that there's 
somebody riding in that race!" he announced 
proudly. "And, Lou, make those pants so tight 
I'll have to take 'em off with a boot-jack!" 

When I finished laughing, I examined the 
goods. It was flannel, red flannel — and for one 
94 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

jockey suit, made extra tight, Will had bought 
fifteen yards of material! 

"Just wanted to be sure that you'd have 
enough," he explained when I cut off the amount 
I would need. "Thought if there was any left 
over, you might make a dress for Arta or some- 
thing of the kind." 

"Oh, you go on!" I laughed at him. "The rest 
of that's going right back to the store. So bun- 
dle it up and take it back and tell them you want 
a refund." 

"Oh, Lou!" His face was almost piteous. "I 
— I don't want to go back there. You — you take 
it back." 

"No sirree. You bought it." 

"But— but " 

"Now, hurry along, Will. Or I just won't 
make this suit for you. So there." 

Will looked lugubriously out the window, hug- 
ging the piece of red flannel tight under one arm. 
A long time he stood there, for all the world 
like a man striving to screw up his courage to 
something he feared. Then, hesitatingly he 
turned, kissed me like a man going to a funeral. 
I had to relent. 

95 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"You dear old coward!" I chided him. "Afraid 
of a little thing like that ! Never mind. I'll go." 

His face beamed. 

"Gosh!" he broke out. "That's sure a relief. 
I'll kill Injuns any day, ride pony express, do 
most anything. But, Lou, Mike Gordon's wife's 
got the hardest face I ever saw in my life — and 
she's working up in the store now and — and — 
what'd I done if she'd said she wouldn't take it 
back? You can't pull a gun on a woman!" 

So, even the bravest can show fear — some- 
times. Will had faced death, exposure, trials, 
tribulations, and more than once disaster — but 
he couldn't face Mike Gordon's wife. So I had 
to face her for him, then hurried back to the 
making of the suit, while Will, like a small boy 
awaiting his first pair of boots, sat humped on a 
small chair, awaiting the ordeal of "trying on." 

It was a wonderful concoction that we event- 
ually conceived — made in the greatest secrecy. 
A flowing blouse, skin-tight trousers, a cap with 
a visor so long that I feared it would tickle the 
horse's ears, all ending in a pair of cowhide boots. 
William Frederick Cody, in this regalia, was the 
most wonderful specimen of human foliage that 
I ever had seen. We both laughed until the tears 
96 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

came. But the suit had been made — and Will 
wore it. 

Perhaps it is best to explain that horse racing 
in those days, in the West, at least, was an en- 
tirely different matter from the race track style. 
Each man rode his own horse, and no matter 
whether he weighed a hundred pounds or two 
hundred, the odds were the same. Every scout 
who rode the plains possessed some horse that had 
saved him more than once from Indian attack, 
and in which he placed every confidence in the 
world. There was little opportunity for com- 
petitive judgment, with the result that a group 
of scouts would gather, begin to extol the won- 
derful performances of their horses, start an ar- 
gument — and end the whole thing by arranging 
a horse race which the whole city of Hays would 
attend. 

And so it was that on Saturday, with Will's 
wonderful suit concealed beneath a long linen 
duster, that we journeyed out of town toward 
the race track. That, incidentally, was only a 
name. There was no turf, simply a stretch of 
level ground in a valley, where some one had 
paced off a mile, and where the townsfolk could 
97 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

gather all along the track to cheer on the victors 
and console the losers. 

We were late and the valley was thronged. 
Here and there were groups of men, arguing, 
announcing in speeches that bore no sign of soft- 
ness, the prowess of their various mounts. Money 
was changing hands from the betters to the stake- 
holders. Here and there, scattered along the 
mile track, were little tents — the inevitable trav- 
eling barrooms that accompanied every gather- 
ing of people in the West. Will and I stepped 
from the carryall, and quietly approached the 
largest group. Then unostentatiously Will re- 
moved that linen duster. 

It was as though a meteor had dropped into the 
valley. The arguments ceased as if they had been 
cut off with a sword. The bar-tents emptied, 
horses were forgotten, bets neglected, while the 
population of Fort Hays and environs gathered 
about myself and the resplendent William Fred- 
erick Cody. Very quietly Wild Bill Hickok, a 
wad of money still clutched in his hand, where it 
had been interrupted in the placing of a bet, came 
forward and looked intently at Will. 

"I don't guess I'll race my horse to-day," he 
said quietly. 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"What's the matter?" 

"That's a good horse," said Wild Bill as he 
turned away. "I'm not going to risk him going 
blind from looking at bright lights." 

That was the beginning of the joking and 
chaffing. But behind it all was envy, deep, gall- 
ing envy. For where is the true Westerner of 
the old days who will not confess a failing for 
color and plenty of it? 

Suddenly, however, the joking stopped tem- 
porarily. The Major had interrupted. 

"We'd better be holding our races," he an- 
nounced. "Some of the men have reported In- 
dians in the vicinity and" — he looked at Cody — 
"if anything can draw them here this afternoon, 
it's that prairie fire that Bill's wearing. So will 
the ladies please take their stations?" 

"Stations?" I asked. 

Will turned to me. 

"Forgot to tell you," he said. "You're the 
only ones that work out here. We depend on 
you to keep your eyes out for the Injuns." 

I knew what that meant, to constantly watch 
the hills which hedged us in for the sight of bob- 
bing figures. That had been one of my first les- 
sons on the plains — on the road out to Hays City 
99 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

— to know that an animal simply moves along in 
a straight course, that a man on horseback can be 
seen traveling in a straight line, but that an In- 
dian raises and lowers his body constantly. 

So, out we went, to our stations, a few hun- 
dred yards from the race track, where we could 
have a commanding view of the hills. Now and 
then, as I watched, I could see the crowds mill- 
ing about Will, and could see his arms gesticu- 
lating at intervals with some vehemence. At 
last he turned from the crowd and came toward 
me. 

"Lou," he said with a smile, "you've got to do 
a lot of wishing." 

"Why?" 

"Because if I don't win this race " 

"Yes?" He had hesitated. 

"Well, you see," came his qualifying answer, 
"the boys all said I'd taken an unfair advantage. 
They said that this outfit I've got on will dazzle 
any horse that gets behind me, and that it'll burn 
my horse so that he won't know which way he's 
running. And I told 'em that if they had any 
money to put up to the effect that this wasn't the 
best jockey suit in the world and guaranteed to 
100 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

w'n any old kind of a race, I might be interested. 
And there sure appeared a lot of money." 

"And did you bet?" 

"Everything," answered Will. 

"All your money?" 

"Money?" he boomed with laughter. "Shucks, 
Lou, that was just the beginning. I've bet this 
suit, I've bet my clothes, I've bet that side-sad- 
dle you're sitting on, I've bet my rifle and my six- 
shooter and — I've even bet Brigham!" 



CHAPTER V 

I laughed too. So thoroughly had I ab- 
sorbed the genial, happy-go-lucky attitude of this 
man of the plains that I could even face the pos- 
sibility of absolute poverty as the result of a 
horse race and joke about it! But that did not 
mean that either Will or myself were anxious to 
lose. 

Some one shouted from the track and Will 
turned away. I watched his comical red figure, 
with that flowing blouse, those skin-tight red 
trousers and the heavy cowhide boots, go along 
the trail and toward his horse. A moment more 
and he had swung into the saddle, to jog down 
the track toward the starting point, while I re- 
sumed my task of watching the hills. 

However, I could not keep my eyes entirely 
away from the race track. When everything one 
possesses is at stake, even the thought of Indians 
cannot keep one from taking a little peek once 
in a while — and so, now and then, my eyes would 
leave the hills and wander far away, a mile down 
102 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the track, to where the forms of horses and men 
were milling about, preparatory to the start. 

A sudden spurt, and I saw that the race had 
begun. Everything was a jumble of hazy fig- 
ures except one — the red-clothed Cody stood out 
on those plains like a lighthouse. And, worst of 
all, I could see that he was not in the lead. 

Hastily I turned for a look at the hills, saw 
that everything was serene, then looked back 
again. Another horse had passed Will, and he 
was now fourth in the race. Already more than 
a quarter of the distance had been covered — and 
if he kept dropping back that much every quar- 
ter, where on earth would our earthly possessions 
be? 

But in the next quarter of a mile or so he 
seemed to hold his same position, as though that 
would help. I couldn't see any joy in the fact 
that only three horses would beat him. Every- 
thing we had, even the horse that Will Cody was 
riding, depended on his being first, not fourth. I 
watched intently, forgetting my task of lookout, 
forgetting everything except that my husband 
was fourth in that race and that 

"Mrs. Cody!" It was the voice of a woman 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

at my side; "do you see anything moving over on 
that hill?" 

I turned abruptly. A second passed. Then, 
far away, I saw a speck show against the horizon 
for just an instant, then another, and another. 

"Indians!" I cried. 

We whirled our horses toward the crowds and 
started on a gallop, screaming our warning as 
we went. The eager watchers of the race sud- 
denly forgot their bets. Men ran toward their 
mounts. A big revolver boomed forth its warn- 
ing, and down on the racetrack the riders swerved 
from the straightaway, out into the plains, drag- 
ging forth their guns as they made the turn; the 
race a thing of the past now. 

Hastily the men rode toward us, and received 
what information we could give them. Then 
came the barking shout of one of the plainsmen, 
for all the world like some sort of a caller for a 
square-dance : 

"Ladies toward town ; gents toward the hills !" 

We obeyed, while every soldier, officer, scout 
and plainsman made the rush against the In- 
dians, who undoubtedly had been attracted by 
the brilliant hue of Will's Little Red Riding 
Suit. As we hurried along, we could hear the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

barking of guns in the distance, and, safely at 
the edge of the valley, we paused to await the 
outcome. For there was not one of us who did 
not have a husband up there where the guns were 
sounding, a husband who might fall victim to 
the musket-ball of some old Indian rifle, or be 
stung by the barb of an arrow. 

Anxiously we waited, then brightened, for the 
sounds of firing faded from the far away, and 
soon we could sight the forms of the returning 
Indian hunters. The rest of the women sought 
vainly to identify the men they loved, and I tried 
to help them. For my heart was easy. The first 
thing I had seen, distant though those horsemen 
might be, was the glaring red of Will Cody's 
jockey suit. And then indeed was I truly grate- 
ful for the wonderful idea of the boyish, rollick- 
ing plainsman who had brought it into being. 

Gradually the men grew closer, and at last 
reached us, with the information that the Indians 
had departed without a fight, followed by sundry 
revolver bullets fired at long range. There had 
been only one casualty — and that to the horse 
race. All the horses were fagged now, it would 
be an impossibility to get a spirited contest out 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

of them. The bets were returned, and once again 
I could count our possessions as our own. 

I looked upon it all as a stroke of great for- 
tune. I sang and hummed as Will and I rode 
side by side back toward town. But Will's face 
was like a coffin. I leaned toward him laugh- 
ingly. 

"Cheer up, Willie," I said, "maybe Brigham 
was just having an off day." 

"Huh?" he stared at me. 

"Next time," I continued, "he'll be running in 
form and " 

"That's just it," came his answer, "he was 
runing in form to-day." 

"But what of it? You didn't lose." 

"But I did." 

"Do you mean" — a quick fear shot through 
my heart — "that anybody could want a bet on a 
race that wasn't finished? They couldn't make 
you pay for " 

Will raised in his saddle. 

"Lou," he said with a sad smile, "I don't guess 
you understand horse racing. I lost to-day be- 
cause I didn't win. When that Injun scare 
bobbed up I had all the money in the world, right 
in my hands. All I needed was the home stretch 
106 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

and Brigham would have shot out like a sky- 
rocket. Why, I hadn't even let it run fast enough 
to turn a hair!" 

And I had given the alarm that had spoiled the 
race! But, even so, I was just as happy. Risk- 
ing everything you own upon the running quali- 
ties of a scout horse is not an enjoyable thing. 
For once I was glad there were Indians on the 
plains. 

But all the races were not so tempestuous. Of 
course, it would not have been a Western affair 
if money had not changed hands; but, as a gen- 
eral thing, moderation was used. For to the 
horse owner, a horse race won was a vindication 
of good judgment, and that was reward enough 
for the man who loved that horse as a thing that 
had borne him and saved his skin more times 
than once. 

Many times afterward I went to the little val- 
ley, and more times than one I gave the Indian 
alarm again. My eyes were particularly keen, 
and I came to be depended upon as an Indian 
lookout — an Indian lookout who only a few years 
before had been a romantically-minded girl of 
old St. Louis, without even a dream that she 
some day would see adventures far wilder than 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

those of the imaginative novels she so eagerly 
devoured. 

An Indian lookout — but just the same, the old 
thought of St. Louis still lingered, and grew 
stronger as my health began once more to fail 
and my nerves to become frayed and raw. I never 
had fully recovered from the effects of my nerv- 
ous shock, and now the tired nerves were begin- 
ning to call for the comforts of home, the little 
luxuries that were impossible to obtain out here 
in the West, the niceties that were invariably 
lacking. 

It all was a perverse viewpoint, for in truth I 
had come to like the West as I never had liked 
the closeness of the city. I had come to love the 
free, bright, clear air, the crispness of the atmos- 
phere in the morning, the broad stretches, the 
great splotches of wonderful coloring at sunset; 
yet with this love in my heart, and particularly 
the love for the man who typified to me all that 
was good and wonderful in this great, open coun- 
try, some Imp of the Perverse within me called 
continually: 

"The city — the city! The smooth, paved 
streets, the trees, the sidewalks. The pretty win- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

dows of the stores, the fine dresses — the city, the 
city! That's where you want to be!" 

I was homesick — homesick for something I did 
not really want. Such are the vagaries of one's 
nerves. Then, it all took definite shape, in a defi- 
nite longing for one thing — something that would 
typify the city, that would typify luxury and 
comfort and ease; the straight lines of tree- 
fringed streets, a silly thing, perhaps, but all 
things are silly except when viewed by the per- 
son who believes in them. And I believed in this : 
I wanted a buggy, a soft-cushioned buggy with 
light springs and a patent-leather dashboard and 
a place to carry a whip. And I wanted that 
buggy more than anything else in the world. 

But such things were not plentiful in Hays 
City. Kansas City was miles away, and it was 
from there only that such a thing could be pro- 
cured. More, I knew that my husband had no 
money to buy such a luxury. And so I wished in 
silence. 

Then came the great chance. It was late one 
afternoon when I heard Will bounding up the 
stairs, three at a time. He threw open the door, 
and as I rose to kiss him, he lifted me in his great 
arms as though I were a child. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Honey," he shouted, "we're rich! That's 
what! We're rich! Guess what's happened!" 

"You've founded a new town!" I joked. 

"Nothing like it. I'm going to get five hun- 
dred dollars a month for doing nothing." 

"For w-h-a-t?" 

"For doing nothing — just fooling around a 
little bit and using up a little ammunition. I've 
made a contract with Goddard Brothers to fur- 
nish all the meat for the Kansas Pacific. All 
I've got to do is kill twelve buffalo a day!" 

"Is that all?" I laughed. 

"Shucks! That's nothing at all." 

And for Will Cody it was nothing. Those 
were the days when buffalo rode the plains in 
great herds, ranging anywhere from fifty head to 
five hundred, and more than once, Will had killed 
twenty and thirty buffalo out of a herd while on 
a casual hunt. Therefore, with buffalo hunting 
as a business, it seemed a simple matter for him 
to procure an average of twelve a day. 

And it was. There were often stretches of 
two and three days at a time when Will did not 
stir out of Hays City. The weather was cool, 
permitting the meat to be kept fresh, and a large 
herd of buffalo invariably meant days of rest for 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

my husband, at a salary of five hundred dollars 
a month. And while this lasted, the old nerve- 
sadness was far away. 

Then came a stretch of lean days, when the 
buffalo roamed far from Hays City, and when it 
was necessary for Will and the wagons that were 
to transport the meat to travel day and night to 
procure the necessary meat for the workmen of 
the railroad. Then, too, the road was building 
farther on, and there were often camps where 
Will would make his headquarters instead of 
making the long trip back to Hays City. And 
on those days, the silly, insistent call would come 
again for that trinket, that plaything — a buggy. 

And when Will came back from his next hunt, 
I asked him for it. His face took on a queer ex- 
pression and he just stood and looked at me for 
a moment. 

"Why do you want it, Lou?" he asked. 

"I don't know, Will," came my answer. "I've 
just got a craving for it — like a person would 
have a craving for fruit or for water. I — I guess 
I'm a little homesick." 

"Then I'll send you home for a visit." 

"But I don't want to go home," I answered 
111 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

with that perversity so common to nervous pros- 
tration. "I — I just want that buggy." 

"But," Will's voice was slow and serious, "you 
would want to drive out into the country with it." 

"That's just it," I broke in. "I want to go out 
in the evening and watch the sunsets, and feel the 
cool air and be free. And when you are not here, 
I want to go alone — just Arta and myself. Will, 
I never go anywhere except under guard. There 
is always some one watching, watching all the 
time. I know it's for my safety — but you under- 
stand, don't you, Will?" 

He came to me and patted my cheek. 

"Of course I understand," he said gently. 
"And it's just because I understand that it hurts 
me. If I didn't. I would simply tell you that you 
couldn't have it, Lou. Buggies are slow, Honey. 
Indians are swift. You would never escape." 

"But, Will — I won't drive far." 

He smiled, as though he knew that he would 
yield in the end. 

"I'll order the buggy from Kansas City to- 
morrow," came his quiet reply, and the question 
was settled. 

While we waited, Will asked me to come with 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

him to one of the extended camps of the railroad, 
and I did so. The creaking old train reached 
there early in the morning and, leaving me in the 
care of the commissary steward, Will saddled his 
horse and hurried away. Soon a wagon appeared 
in the distance, and I heard a voice calling to the 
cook. 

"Hey, Red! Something coming in. Looks 
like the buffalo wagon." 

"Buffalo wagon, huh?" came the shouted an- 
swer. "Bill with it?" 

"Nope." 

"Guess it must just have a few on it then. 
Probably bringing 'em in while old Buffalo Bill 
chases the rest of the herd." 

The commissary steward laughed. 

"What'd you call him?" 

"Buffalo Bill," answered the cook. 

"Where'd you get that up?" 

"Oh, it ain't mine. Got a fellow working down 
on the section that made up a piece of poetry 
about it. Runs something like : 

"Buffalo Bill, Buffalo Bill, 
Never missed and never will; 
Always aims and shoots to kill, 
And the comp'ny pays his buffalo bill!" 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

The commissary man doubled with laughter. 

"That's shore pert!" he chuckled. "I'm going 
out and recite that to the bunch around here. 
They ain't heard it or I'd known about it before 
this." 

Then, repeating the doggerel over and over 
again to be sure of memorizing it, he started 
forth, little knowing that he was about to per- 
petuate a name that would travel around the 
world, that would be repeated by kings and 
queens, presidents and regents, and that would 
eventually become known to every child who 
breathed the spirit of adventure. For thus was 
Buffalo Bill named, named for the buffalo that 
he killed that he might buy a buggy to appease 
the fancy of a nerve-strained, illness-weakened 
wife. 

And how that name traveled ! That afternoon, 
when Will, with "Lucretia Borgia," his old buf- 
falo gun, slung across his saddle, came back from 
the hunt, he was greeted by grinning workmen 
who shouted the new title at him — nor was Will 
ever anything but proud to be so designated. 
Buffalo Bill he became that day, and Buffalo 
Bill he remained even after death, the typifica- 
tion of the old West, when the buffalo roamed 
114 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the short grass and when the New World was 
young. 

Even before we could return to Fort Hays, 
the name had traveled there and struck the fancy 
of every one. The hotel keeper spoke it with a 
smile when we came home again. The rangers 
and cowmen and scouts and gamblers shouted it 
at him along the streets. Will Cody, famous 
though he had been as a scout and as a hunter, 
now suddenly found himself invested with a new 
power and a new glory — through the application 
of a euphonious nickname. 

And the name spread through the days and 
weeks that followed. Every one insisted on using 
it, even the station agent when he came to the 
hotel to announce that the long-looked-for buggy 
had arrived. And like two children with a new 
plaything, Will and I went down to watch it un- 
crated. 

A beautiful, shiny, soft cushioned thing it was, 
and I was as happy as a child with a new toy. 
Will was quiet; his eyes serious, in spite of the 
joy that he took in my happiness. 

"We'll go driving to-night!" I announced. 
Will shook his head. 

"I believe we'd better wait," he said slowly. 
115 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Maybe we'd — we'd better drive it around town 
for a while, until we get used to it." 

"Foolish!" I laughed. "Get used to a buggy? 
Whoever heard of such a thing?" 

"Well, Brigham's not used to it," he fenced. 
"And besides " 

"Will," I said plaintively, "I want to go driv- 
ing this evening. Won't you take me — please?" 

He turned. 

"Lou," he said, "there are Injuns around — 
plenty of them. Every scout that comes into the 
fort brings some kind of a story about a brush 
with them. I " 

"Please, Will. We'll only go out a little 
ways." 

Will's face suddenly took on an expression 
that was unlike anything I ever had seen be- 
fore. 

"Very well, Lou," he said quietly, and three 
hours later we were driving out into the country. 

Will was silent — in a silence that went entirely 
unnoticed by me. For I was happy and chatter- 
ing about everything I saw, clucking to Brigham 
who seemed a bit nervous in his new outfit — he 
had been driven very few times in his life — hum- 
116 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ming and happy. At last, Will touched me on 
the arm. 

"We'd better turn here," he urged. 

"Oh, no. Let's go on up to the hill there. I 
want to watch the sunset." 

"It's safer to turn here." 

"But " 

"Lou, I've been a scout a good many- 
years " 

"Yes, and you go out and risk all sorts of 
dangers and never worry a minute about your- 
self. But if I take a little buggy ride It's 

just up on the hill, Will," I begged, "it's only a 
little ways." 

I saw W r ill turn anxiously in the seat and look 
back toward town. Then he settled down again, 
more watchful than ever. 

"Be ready to turn at any minute, Lou," he 
told me. 

But I laughed at his fears. I was in a new 
world — one created by a foolish four-wheeled 
contraption — and I was looking at the world 
through rose-colored glasses. At another time, 
it all might have been different. But now 

I clucked to Brigham and we went on, down 
the twisting road to the hill, and started its steep 
117 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ascent. The sun was just setting, and letting 
the reins lag, I watched it, watched the play of 
the colors, the changing hues, the violets merging 
into the lavenders, the gold and soft grays and 
softer pinks — only to swerve suddenly as Will 
jerked at the reins, and with a sharp-spoken 
order, turned Brigham almost in his tracks. 
Then the whip cut through the air, lashing down 
upon the back of the horse and causing it almost 
to leap out of its harness. A cry of excitement 
came to my lips, only to be stifled by the voice of 
Cody, lapsing into the vernacular: 

"Injuns! Take these reins." 

Brigham was galloping now, galloping in har- 
ness, the buggy swaying and careening behind 
him as he rushed down the hill and on toward the 
winding road beyond. Will shifted in his seat 
and raised himself on one knee. I felt his elbow 
bump against me and knew that he was reaching 
for his revolver. Then he bent over and kissed 
me on the cheek. 

"Lou," he called above the noise of Brigham's 
hoofs and the bumping of the buggy, "I want 
you to know that I love you better than anything 
else in the world. That's why I may have to do 

something that — that " 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Will!" 

I looked up hurriedly. Something had touched 
my head. It was Will's revolver, and he was 
holding it, pointed straight at my temple. I 
screamed. 

"Will— Will!" 

My husband looked down at me, his face old 
and lined and hard. 

"They've got rifles," he said shortly. "I've only 
got this revolver. They can outdistance me. I 
want to be ready — so that if they get me, I can 
pull the trigger before I fall. It's better for a 
woman to be dead, Lou — than to be in their 
hands." 

The breath seemed to have left my body. I 
wanted to scream, to laugh, to sing, anything ex- 
cept to realize that at my side was my husband, 
nerving himself to fire the bullet that would kill 
his own wife, rather than allow her to fall into 
the hands of the pursuing enemy. On and on we 
went, the buggy rolling and rocking, dropping 
into the hollows and gulleys of the road, then 
bounding out again as the faithful old Brigham 
plunged on. Up above me, I heard Will talking 
to himself, as though striving for strength to hold 
to his resolve. With all the strength I had, I 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

placed the reins in one hand, then with the free 
one, reached outward. I touched Will's arm. 
Then I felt his left hand, icy cold, close over 
mine. We sped onward. 

A quarter of a mile. A half mile. Then from 
the distance a faint, thudding sound. Will bent 
close to me. 

"Remember, Lou," he said again, "if the worst 
comes — it was because I loved you." 

I pressed his hand tight and the rocking, leap- 
ing journey continued. Alternate fever and 
chilling cold were chasing through my veins. My 
teeth were chattering, my whole being a-quiver. 
On and on, while the thudding sounds from the 
distance seemed to grow nearer. Then, sud- 
denly, I felt Will swing from my side, and turn 
in the buggy. I saw him raise his revolver and 
fire, straight into the air. He waved his arms 
and shouted. 

"Hurry, Lou!" he boomed, "a little more and 
we're safe! Hurry — hurry!" 

Again the whip cut through the air. Then, far 
ahead, I saw the forms of men, urging their 
horses forward. 

"It's some of the boys," Will called to me. "I 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

asked them to ride out along the road if we didn't 
get back on time." 

The forms came closer. Cody waved and 
shouted to them and pointed to the distance. A 
clattering rush and they had passed us — on to- 
ward the hills and the place where a pursuing 
band of Indians now would become a fleeing, 
scattering group of fugitives. Weakly I sank 
forward. Dully I felt Will take the reins from 
my hands. Then the world went black. The 
slender thread of my resistance had snapped. 

When consciousness came, I found myself back 
in the hotel with Will and a doctor by my side. 
I heard something about St. Louis and the neces- 
sity for waiting a few days until I should gain a 
little strength. Then I learned that the verdict 
had been passed, that the physician had ordered 
me home. And I — well, I cried, cried like a child 
who had lost her doll, cried because I felt that 
after believing my battle won, I had allowed my- 
self to be defeated. 

A week later, we went back to St. Louis, Will 
and Arta and myself. Again in Old French- 
town, Will said good-by to me, there on the 
little veranda where first he had told me the story 
of his boyhood, and told me: 
121 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"I'll be waiting, Lou — but you must not come 
back until you are well and strong again. You'll 
promise?" 

"I promise," was my answer. But the promise 
was not to be fulfilled for many months, and then 
only for a visit. 

It was more than a year afterward that I went 
downtown one afternoon, suddenly to be halted 
by a glaring poster, flaunting forth from a wall: 

GRAND EXCURSION 

to 

FORT SHERIDAN 

KANSAS PACIFIC RAILROAD 

BUFFALO SHOOTING MATCH 

i-or 
$500 A SIDE 

AND THE 

CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD 

BETWEEN 

Billy Comstock (The famous scout) 

AND 

W. F. Cody (Buffalo Bill) 

FAMOUS BUFFALO KILLKB FOB TBE KANSAS PACIFIC BAILBOAD 

122 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

And with that, all the pent-up longing for the 
West that I had resisted so strongly during the 
months of illness which had followed my arrival 
in St. Louis, surged up again in me. There, in 
that glaring sign, the West called to me, the wide 
stretches of the prairie, the twisting, winding 
roads, the faint sight of wagon trains in the 
distance, and the jackrabbit bobbing over the 
soap-weed. I wanted to go back home — for the 
sudden realization came over me that St. Louis 
no longer was home, that it was a quiet, staid, 
tame old city, that it was cramped and crowded, 
that even the trees which lined the streets were 
prisoners of the sidewalk and the curb, prisoners 
just like me. 

I wanted to be where the smoke did not hang 
in the atmosphere on gray days, where the sun 
shone bright and keen and where life was as free 
as the air. Quickly I changed my course. With- 
in fifteen minutes, a telegram was traveling to my 
husband, telling him that I believed I had im- 
proved sufficiently to allow me to visit him and to 
attend the match. And when the excursion train, 
with its flare-stacked locomotive, pulled out of the 
station at St. Louis, it carried two pasengers as 
eager to reach the end of the journey as the man 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

who awaited them was anxious to receive them. 
Arta and myself were Westward bound once 
more, traveling toward Fort Sheridan, to see 
Buffalo Bill, our Buffalo Bill, shoot bison for the 
championship of the world. 



CHAPTER VI 

The excursion consisted of about one hundred 
men and women from St. Louis — travel to Kan- 
sas in those days cost a great deal more than it 
does even in these days of advanced railroad 
rates. The journey was a long one, and a tire- 
some one, but not one of us regretted it. Es- 
pecially was this true of myself. I was going 
back to the West. 

For forty-eight hours the old train dragged 
along, then stopped, twenty miles east of Fort 
Sheridan. There wagons and horses awaited the 
excursionists, and an anxious buffalo killer sought 
out Arta and myself. It was early morning, and 
soon after the greetings, we were on our way to 
the buffalo grounds. 

The bison were especially plentiful in the 
vicinity of Fort Sheridan, the reason this place 
had been selected. Billy Comstock was a famous 
scout and buffalo killer from Fort Wallace, and 
as usual, it all had started in an argument. So 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

now, in front of visitors from hundreds of miles 
away, the matter was to be settled. 

Not that the buffalo were to be run before the 
spectators and killed a la carte. A sight of the 
various ''runs" might perhaps mean miles of 
trailing far in the rear of the hunters, until the 
sound of the guns should give the signal that the 
shooting had begun and that the buffalo were too 
busy to notice anything except the hunters who 
had pounced upon them. And every one of those 
hundred excursionists was more than willing to 
make the trip. 

However, the journey was not as long as had 
been expected. Hardly a mile from the starting 
point Will sighted a herd of nearly two hundred 
buffalo, and the excursionists assembled on a hill 
from which they could watch practically the en- 
tire operation of the first "run," as the onslaughts 
were called. Referees were appointed, their 
watches set together, and the two contestants 
given a certain time from the moment they ran 
their horses into the herd, separating their groups, 
to kill as many of the great, hulking animals as 
possible. Will was riding Brigham and carried 
the old gun which served him so well on his hunts 
for the Kansas Pacific, "Lucretia Borgia," Com- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

stock was on a horse that he prized as much as 
Cody prized Brigham, and carried a gun in which 
he believed with equal faith. The two men struck 
their mark. The referee waved a hand. 

"Go !" came the shout. The horses and riders 
plunged forward, the referee and his assistants 
hurrying behind, while tenderfoot men and 
women from St. Louis gripped their hands in 
excitement, and while my eyes followed the man 
I felt sure would win — my husband. 

The herd was grazing in a slight valley and did 
not notice the approach of the hunters until they 
were almost on them. Straight into the center of 
the throng of shaggy beasts rode Cody and Corn- 
stock, separating the herd, Comstock taking the 
right half and Cody the left. Then, as the two 
halves started in opposite directions, Comstock 
began firing as he worked his way swiftly to the 
rear. Three buffalo dropped. Will had not fired 
a shot. 

"Something's wrong with his gun — something 
must be wrong with it! Why doesn't he shoot?" 

The queries were coming from all around me, 

but I only smiled to myself and held Arta close 

to me, to conceal the excitement I felt. Too 

many times had Will told me of the plan he had 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

formed for hunting buffalo and slaying them in 
large numbers — and I knew that now he was 
making his arrangements for the carrying out of 
exactly that method. Comstock had gone to the 
rear of his herd and was driving it, firing as he 
went. Already he was far down the valley, leav- 
ing a string of four more buffalo behind. And 
still Buffalo Bill's gun was silent. 

Then suddenly came a shout and pointing 
fingers. Cody had worked his way ahead of the 
herd and slightly to one side. Quickly he 
swerved and, riding straight past the beasts, fired 
as quickly as his gun would permit him. The 
leaders were dropped in their tracks, stopping 
the rush of buffalo from behind, and causing the 
whole herd to mill and hesitate. 

Just as quickly, Will circled again, and came 
back against the herd. Those were not the days 
of the repeating and automatic rifles. Firing 
was comparatively slow. A shot, then the gun 
must be loaded again, and while this was going 
on, the milling of the herd still held the target in 
place and awaiting death. Again and again the 
crack of old "Lucretia Borgia" sounded. Again 
and again the buffalo dropped, always in a place 
that would impede the progress of the herd and 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

cause it to hesitate in its plunging rush as it 
sought a new avenue of escape. Now ten buffalo 
showed on the plains as a result of my husband's 
marksmanship. The number went to fifteen, to 
twenty, to twenty-five, to thirty, to thirty-five, to 
thirty-six — seven — eight — 

A wave of the arm. The referee's assistant, 
following my husband, had called time. Three 
miles away, where the other assistant followed 
Comstock, time was being called also. And when 
the count was made, it was found that in those 
three miles of chasing the herd, Comstock had 
killed twenty-three buffalo, while in a space of 
hardly three hundred yards, Buffalo Bill had 
killed almost twice as many. 

A short rest came then, while from the wagons 
came a miraculous thing. It was champagne, and 
great hampers of dainties, brought out from St. 
Louis by the rich excursionists, and served there 
on the plains, with dead buffalo lying all about 
— the dainty confections of the approximate East 
in the atmosphere of the West. 

An hour, then Cody and Comstock started 

forth again. This time the search was longer, 

and the guns had been booming for some time 

when the excursionists came in sight of the hunt- 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ers. The herd had been smaller this time, and 
just as the scene came into view, Will was finish- 
ing the last three buffalo of his half, while Corn- 
stock was vainly trying to prevent the remainder 
of his herd from escaping him. 

Suddenly the herd swerved, and plunged 
straight at him and his referee. Comstock, by a 
quick move, escaped, but the referee did not have 
the same good fortune. A second later, white- 
faced men and screaming women saw the horse 
of the referee lifted on the horns of a great bull 
buffalo, tossed high into the air, then dropped, 
writhing in its death agonies, while the referee, 
dusty and limping, dragged himself up from the 
spot where he had been thrown, fully thirty feet 
away. Comstock's run was ended — and we did 
not approach the hunting field. We had seen al- 
most enough. 

However, there was one more run yet to come, 
and with the exception of some of the St. Louis 
women who, white-faced and weak, returned to 
the train, all of us stayed to watch it. Will, with 
his inevitable love of the theatrical, suddenly 
beamed with an inspiration. 

"I just think," he announced, as he crammed 
down a dainty sandwich and reached for another, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"that I'll see if I can't even up this score a little. 
It's getting terribly one sided." 

"Oh, don't sympathize with me!" Billy Corn- 
stock was helping his referee, who insisted on offi- 
ciating again, in loosening up his wrenched ankle, 
"I'll manage to get along all right." 

Will smiled. 

"Well, then, you'll let me have a little enjoy- 
ment for my own sake, won't you?" 

"Go ahead and kill yourself if you want to," 
came the joking reply of his contestant. "But 
I'm going to kill buffalo." 

"So am I," answered my husband. "But this 
time I'm going to do it with a horse that hasn't 
either a bridle or saddle." 

There were gasps of astonishment — and I be- 
lieve that the loudest came from me. 

"Will!" I begged, "please don't. Please " 

But Will only grinned and patted my hand. 

"Shucks, Mamma," he said, "Old Brigham 
knows more about killing buffalo than I do my- 
self." 

"But if you should get caught in the herd " 

"Old Brigham will get me out again." 

'And while the crowd — and that included my- 
self — waited excitedly, Will quietly removed the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

bridle and saddle from Brigham, and calmly 
examined his rifle. 

Meanwhile, scouts showed on the horizon, with 
the information that a small herd of buffalo 
had been sighted about four miles away, coming 
in this direction. A leap and Cody was on Brig- 
ham's back. Comstock reached his horse and 
mounted it. The referees took their places and 
the hunters were gone; the excursionists, their 
wagons bumping along the road, following as fast 
as they could. As for myself, the wagon seemed 
fairly to crawl. My husband, riding without 
saddle and without bridle, guiding his horse only 
by oral commands, was fading farther and 
farther in the distance, while, like some prisoner 
going to an execution, I was following, perhaps 
to see him killed or maimed. Yet I wanted to be 
there — if accident should happen, I could at least 
be near him, at least be where he could speak to 
me and I to him. 

The slow ascent of a long hill — then the 
wagons leaped forward with a rush. Far down 
in the valley, the two hunters were galloping to- 
ward the herd, to separate them and to start their 
"runs." I looked for Will — he was slightly in 
the lead, Old Brigham carrying him swiftly and 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

safely forward toward the objects of the hunt. 

A sudden blurring as the two horsemen struck 
the herd, to be lost to sight for a moment. Then 
Comstock showed, turning his half of the herd 
and driving it before him, while he struggled to 
urge his tired horse to enough speed to reach a 
sure shooting distance. I strained my eyes, but 
for a moment I could not see Will. My heart 
seemed to stop beating. My hands, tight clasped, 
were cold and wet and lifeless. 

Then a cry of gladness came to my lips. Out 
from the side of the herd, where he had almost 
been lying on his horse's back to conceal his pres- 
ence from the buffalo at the rear, shot Will and 
Brigham, swinging far in front of the plunging 
beasts, then suddenly turning. The thudding pop 
of a rifle sounded from far away, and we saw the 
buffalo pile up as they stumbled and plunged 
over the body of a fallen comrade; stop, wheel 
and start in another direction. 

But Cody was there before them. Old Brig- 
ham, bridleless though he might be, was working 
at the best game he knew, a game he had played 
practically all of his equine life, and he needed 
few orders. My fears departed. The worst was 
over, the herd had been reached and separated. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Now it was only a matter of keeping out of the 
way of the stragglers or the wounded. And the 
wounded were few when Will Cody shot. His 
game usually dropped in its tracks. More and 
more excited I became as I saw Will circle his 
half of the herd and drop two more. Only ten 
were left now — the herd probably had been a part 
of that hunted earlier in the day — and I turned 
to the watchers with a new confidence. 

"My husband will kill every one of them!" I 
prophesied. And my opinion was correct. 

One after another they fell, until only one was 
left, a great shaggy bull which plunged forward 
with a speed that equaled Brigham's, and which 
seemed intent on coming straight toward us! 

Nearer and nearer he approached, with Cody 
hurrying along in the rear. The half mile less- 
ened to a quarter, then to an eighth, while nerv- 
ousness began to make its appearance every- 
where, and while Cody still raced along on Brig- 
ham, his rifle hanging loose in his hand, his eyes 
intent on the buffalo. Suddenly fear appeared. 

"Why doesn't he shoot?" 

Some one asked the question spasmodically. 
Immediately panic began to reach the brains of 
the spectators. 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Maybe he's out of ammunition. Maybe " 

The buffalo was only a few hundred yards 
away now. Women were screaming, men help- 
ing them into the wagons. Others were running. 
But I stood in my position and laughed. I knew 
that Will Cody would have headed off that 
buffalo and started it in another direction if there 
had been danger. I was there and Arta was 
there, laughing and clapping her hands as she 
watched her father race after the plunging bison. 

The hundred yards or so changed to a hundred 
feet, while spectators screamed and shouted. 
Then, just as the buffalo headed straight toward 
the wagons, Will Cody raised his rifle and fired. 
The beast leaped high into the air. Its heavy, 
shaggy shoulders seemed to unbalance its body. 
It somersaulted, rolled, struggled a moment, then 
lay still in death, at the very tongue of the first 
wagon. 

Meanwhile, far in the distance, the forms of 
Billy Comstock and his referee showed them- 
selves, coming back after a wild chase. His 
buffalo had scattered, with the result that from 
his end of the herd he had been able tc kill only 
five, while my husband had added thirteen more 
to his score, making a total of sixty-nine against 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Comstock's forty- six, and adding a new record 
to the name of Buffalo Bill. 

That night, in Fort Sheridan, Will and I sat 
in our room in the hotel. He had Arta on his lap 
and was fondling her and chucking her under the 
chin, his big voice booming, his every action as 
fresh and bright as though the killing of sixty- 
nine buffalo in a day was nothing more than a bit 
of morning exercise. Suddenly, as with a sudden 
thought, he looked up. 

"Mamma," he said, "how do you like being 
Mrs. Buffalo Bill?" 

"Land sakes, Will," I answered him, "what- 
ever made you ask that question? You know I'm 
as happy as a bug in a rug." 

"Oh, I know that," he bantered, "but I mean 
the 'Buffalo Bill' part." 

"Fine," I said, "but why did you ask?" 

"Oh." he joked, "I just happened to think that 
you can't very well be Mrs. Buffalo Bill without 
being able to say that you've killed a buffalo." 

"You mean for me to kill a buffalo? Well! 
I wouldn't be afraid to." 

"Huh? What's that?" Will had straightened. 
I had known that he had expected me to be 
afraid. And so I had just taken the opposite 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

angle. "You wouldn't be afraid to kill a 
buffalo?" 

"If my husband can kill them, I can too." 

"Well, I'm a son of a sea cook! By golly" — 
he let out a roaring laugh and jiggled Arta high 
in the air — "I'm just going to see whether you'll 
be afraid or not. Want to go along, Arta? 
'Course you do! I'll strap you right on your 
mother's lap and let you take part in the 
festivities too! That's what! How's to-mor- 
row?" he asked turning to me. "Think you'd 
kind of like to take a little buffalo hunt in the 
morning?" 

"I — I " The denial was on my lips, but 

I checked it. I had gone this far and there was 
no turning back. I smiled, as though the killing 
of a buffalo were nothing in the world. "Why 
certainly. Just any time you want to go, Will, 
I'd be delighted!" 

"You— would?" 

"I'd just love it!" 

But when bedtime came and the lights were out 
and I should have been asleep, I was wide-eyed 
and staring into the darkness, watching imagi- 
nary buffalo herds as they circled about and 
plunged toward me, their great shaggy shoulders 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

rocking and bounding, their heavy heads lowered 
and menacing. I tried to sleep — but sleep was 
impossible. In the morning, I was going to hunt 
buffalo, with my baby strapped on my lap. And 
I didn't like that part of it. 

Will awoke early the next morning, but I was 
up before him, cleaning my revolver which I had 
dragged out of my trunk, and wishing for the 
time to start. Now that I was into it, I wanted 
to get it over just as quickly as possible. As for 
Will 

"What've you got in your mind, anyway?" he 
asked as he stopped and watched me. 

"Killing buffalo," I told him, and smiled. 

Whereupon he chuckled and walked away, 
picking up Arta as he went along, and carrying 
her on his shoulder. At last he turned. 

"Are you really serious ?" he grinned. 

"Are you ?" I countered, laughingly. Daylight 
had brought me a good deal more courage. 

"Well, I asked you first." 

"And I asked you." 

So there things stood. Will chuckled again, 
lowered Arta from her exalted position, and 
started for the door. 

"By golly," he said with one of his sudden re- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

solves, "I just believe you're gritty enough to do 
it! And I'll be darned if I ain't going to see if 
you will ! Trot down to breakfast, while I go get 
the horses." 

A half hour later we were making our way out 
of town and toward the broad stretches of the 
plains. I was riding Brigham, with a side-saddle, 
and Arta had been strapped securely to my lap 
with broad straps which went around the hooks 
of the saddle and then about my waist. At my 
side hung my big revolver, one that Will had 
given me after I had demonstrated my ability to 
use it. And strangely enough, many of my ap- 
prehensions had vanished. I was on Old Brig- 
ham, and I knew that my sole task would be to 
fire the shot with the proper aim behind it. Brig- 
ham would do all the necessary thinking and 
maneuvering. 

However, the nearness of the hunt was begin- 
ning to have the opposite effect on Will. When 
we had started from town, he was laughing and 
joking and whistling, but now as we neared the 
buffalo grounds, he became more and more seri- 
ous. Suddenly he started, and raised in his 
saddle. 

"Buffalo," he said shortly. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

A thrill went through me, but strangely 
enough, it was not the thrill of fear. I suppose 
there is something about the hunt which gets into 
one's blood — for years, several years, at least, I 
had lived in the atmosphere of it, hearing about 
the exciting adventures, about the plunging 
beasts and the zest of it all without absorbing it. 
But now I was at the very edge of that excite- 
ment myself, and it was like wine in my veins. I 
reached to my holster to assure myself of the 
presence of my revolver. Then I called to Will : 

"I'm ready whenever you are." 

"You're sure you're not afraid?" he asked 
quickly. 

"Honestly, Will. I — I was last night. I was 
just joking when it all started, and I was scared 
to death last night. But now — honestly, Will, I 
want to see if I can kill a buffalo." 

He rode close to me and leaned and kissed Arta 
and myself. 

"You're absolutely sure?" 

"Absolutely," I answered. 

"All right, then," came his reply. "You'll be 

safe. There's very little danger unless you get 

rattled and lose your head. Let Brigham handle 

the situation and don't try to ride him any place 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

he doesn't want to go. Keep your whole mind 
centered on shooting. And remember to put the 
bullet right under the left shoulder." 

"I'll remember," I said. 

We started forward. A mile further and we 
approached the buffalo herd which was grazing 
and paying little attention to our approach. Will 
swerved to me again. 

"I'm not going to let you hunt the whole herd. 
I'll scatter them and bring some toward you. All 
right. Pronto!" 

Our horses leaped forward and we sped to the 
herd. A few hundred feet away from the bison 
Will sped ahead of me and drove his horse 
straight into the mass of shaggy beasts. They 
split and fled, while Will cut out four or five and 
began to circle them toward me. Then he waved 
his arm, the signal for me to begin my hunt. 

My heart was pounding like a triphammer. 
The whole world was hazy — hazy except for 
those plunging buffalo, upon which my every at- 
tention was centered. I knew what to do — Will 
was on the opposite side of the beasts, his rifle 
ready for an instant shot should anything go 
wrong, his horse keeping pace with the fleeing 
animals, his eyes watching their every movement. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

I gave the word to Brigham and while Arta, 
strapped to my lap, laughed and gurgled and 
clapped her little hands, we galloped forward. 
One great, heavy, humped buffalo had moved out 
a few yards from the rest of the stragglers, and 
Will waved an arm to me to indicate that this 
was the one I should down. I turned Brigham 
toward him, and the chase began. 

For nearly a mile we raced, gradually cutting 
down the distance between the buffalo and my- 
self. Then slowly we began to overtake him. 

Only a few rods separated us, and I raised my 
revolver as though to fire. But Will anxiously 
waved me down. 

"Closer!" I could not hear the word, but I 
could see his lips as he framed it. Even Old 
Brigham seemed to understand that I was about 
to make a mistake, for he suddenly plunged for- 
ward with a new speed, cutting down the dis- 
tance between the speeding bison and myself. 
Soon the distance was cut in two. Now to a 
third. Again I raised my revolver, and this time 
Will did not object. There was a puff of smoke, 
the booming of the heavy gun, and then 

Then, with a thrill that I never again shall 
know, I saw the buffalo stumble, stagger a sec- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ond and fall headlong. From behind came a 
wild sound, and I saw Will standing in his stir- 
rups and whooping like a wild Indian. 

"You got him, Mamma," he shouted. "I knew 
you could do it — knew it all the time!" 

As for Arta, she was laughing and patting 
her little hands and having the time of her young 
life, while I — well, I must confess that I laughed 
a little hysterically and that my hand was shak- 
ing as though with a chill. I had killed my 
buffalo and with the first shot. Will sent his 
horse plunging to my side. 

"Don't stop with one," he called to me, "make 
a record for yourself. Let's go after the rest of 
them." 

I agreed, and once more Old Brigham broke 
into a gallop, as Will and I started after the 
other stragglers of the herd. Soon we were 
abreast of another, and once more my revolver 
was raised. 

But this time my aim was unsteady. I still 
was nervous from the excitement of the first kill- 
ing, and the gun would not hold true. Here and 
there it bobbed while I, seeking to steady my aim, 
let second after second pass. Vaguely I heard 
a voice shouting: 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Shoot— shoot!" 

I pulled the trigger, and then cried out with 
happiness. For again a buffalo had plunged and 
tumbled, to paw uncertainly at the ground, then 
lay still. Proudly I turned to Will. 

"I guess that's pretty good shooting," I said 
haughtily. My husband's lips began to spread in 
a wide grin. 

"Certainly is," he agreed. "Some of the best 
shooting I ever did in my life." 

"That you ever did?" 

"Uh-huh," came his solemn answer. "I had 
to time it pretty well to make it fit right in with 
your shot, but I did it. Yes, sir, that's pretty 
good shooting, if I do say it myself." 

I stared. 

"Why, Will Cody," I asked, "what on earth 
are you talking about." 

"Killin' buffalo," he answered. "You see, I 
could tell from the way that shooting iron was 
wobbling around in your hand that you were 
liable to make a miss. And I knew that if you 
did that, you'd probably wound that old bull just 
enough to make him rambunctious. So, when 
you shot, I shot too, just to make things sure. 
1U 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

And by golly, from the looks of things, I was 
right." 

We were at the side of the dead buffalo now, 
and I could see the blood still flowing from two 
wounds. One was a jagged, rough affair, below 
his neck, where the bullet from my revolver had 
torn its way along, just under the skin, doing 
nothing more than to make an ugly flesh wound. 
The other hole was clean and sharp, driving 
under the left shoulder and in a position to pierce 
the heart. Will grinned again. 

"Come to think of it, Mamma," he chuckled, 
"we ain't such a bad team, are we?" 

But my reputation as a buffalo huntress had 
been tarnished and I said so. Will was for going 
home, but I wanted another chance — and he gave 
it to me. The main herd of bison had stopped 
its flight about a mile and a half away, and we 
rode toward it, this time attacking the whole 
herd, Will riding just a few feet behind me on 
the inside, next to the plunging animals, and 
ready at any moment to protect me with a quick 
shot, in case of accident. 

But this time I needed no help. I had re- 
loaded my revolver, and, riding close to the herd, 
fired at the nearest animal. It dropped. Then, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

as the bison behind it hesitated at the sight of the 
toppling beast before it, I fired again. This time 
the shot went slightly wide of its mark, and I 
pulled the trigger twice more before the animal 
could turn to plunge at me. It also fell. Then, 
as the herd went milling away, I restored my gun 
to its holster. 

"There," I said proudly, "I guess that vindi- 
cates Mrs. Buffalo Bill." 

"It sure does!" Will agreed happily. "I'm 
kind of thinking of taking a few weeks' vacation 
and letting you do the hunting for the family!" 

But it was I who took the vacation, for, while 
I had greatly improved physically, both Will and 
myself knew that a further rest back in St. Louis 
would do me no harm. 

More than that, the Kansas Pacific was build- 
ing farther and farther west every day. There 
were few accommodations now and it would have 
meant a life of camping on the plains, with the 
accompanying dangers of Indian attacks, were I 
to remain with Will. Not that I would have 
feared these risks to have remained with my hus- 
band — but both Will and myself had something 
else to consider — Arta, the baby. And when 
there was no necessity, we felt that we should not 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

face the danger. So the baby and myself went 
back to St. Louis, to wait until my husband 
should finish the contract which had given him 
his title, that of Buffalo Bill. 

The conclusion of this took nearly six months 
longer, with the result that in May, 1868, Will 
ended his career as a professional buffalo hunter, 
after having killed, with the rifle, 4,280 bison in 
a space of about eighteen months. And when I 
look back upon it, I cannot help reflecting how 
things have changed in this country of ours, how 
the waste of yesterday has given way before the 
enforced economy of to-day — and how much 
might have been saved to this generation if the 
West had only known and understood that the 
glorious days of plenty would not last forever. 

Of those 4,280 buffalo which Will killed, only 
the humps and hind-quarters were used, the rest 
of the bodies, with the exception of the heads, 
being left to rot on the plains. The heads Will 
always took in to the Kansas Pacific, where they 
were forwarded to a taxidermist for distribution 
throughout the country. And to-day, when you 
look upon the great, shaggy head of a buffalo in 
the railroad offices of the lines which succeeded 
the Kansas Pacific Railroad, you are looking on 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the head of one of the victims of old "Lucretia 
Borgia," for my husband, Buffalo Bill, furnished 
practically every one of those souvenirs of the 
West. 

As for the parts of the bison that were left to 
rot. ... A buffalo rarely weighed less than 
1,000 pounds, in edible meat. Of this, less than 
a third was taken for the consumption of the 
laborers on the Kansas Pacific. That meant, out 
of the hunting that my husband alone did in 
those eighteen months, nearly three million 
pounds of meat was left on the plains. And only 
a half hour ago my butcher coolly informed me 
that steaks had taken another jump, and that my 
favorite cut would henceforth cost 55 cents a 
pound! 



CHAPTER VII 

When the contract with the Kansas Pacific 
ended, Will resumed his vocation as a scout, this 
time serving under General Sheridan in his cam- 
paigns against the Indians in Western Kansas, 
Colorado and even in what is now New Mexico. 
Arta and I, of course, were in St. Louis, and 
there remained, while I gained strength and 
health for what was to be one of the really 
strenuous periods of my life. But that comes 
later. 

It was during the few months which Will 
served under Sheridan that he made the ride that 
won him fame through the West as a dispatch 
bearer and a man who could stand the utmost 
amount of fatigue without giving way beneath it. 
Letters, which long ago became yellowed and 
brittle with age, told me the progressive story of 
that ride, letters which I read in the shade of the 
old trees that fringed the street in front of my 
home in old St. Louis, and which caused me to 
thrill with a homesickness for the West. For I 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

was a Western woman now as I never had been 
before. I was growing strong and healthy, and 
I wanted the West. I wanted to feel the spring 
of a horse beneath me, the thrill of danger — yes, 
even the horror of fear, for that had become a 
part of my life. So, I waited for those letters 
as one would wait for the installments of a thrill- 
ing novel. And they had an unusual story of 
bravery and stamina to tell. 

It was just after an encounter with Indian 
warriors under Old Santanta, a vicious Kiowa 
chief, that my husband rode into Fort Larned, 
Kansas, to learn that Captain Parker, the com- 
manding officer, had been seeking him anxiously 
to carry some messages to General Sheridan, 
then in Fort Hays. The country was full of In- 
dians, fugitives from the Camp of Santanta, 
which had been broken up by the soldiers and 
scouts under Will's command, and the ride meant 
danger. However, Will took the dispatches, 
slowly worked his way through the Indian coun- 
try, rode straight into an Indian camp in the 
darkness, stampeded the horses that were tethered 
there, got out again before the savages could as- 
semble enough horseflesh to pursue him, and at 
break of day delivered the messages personally 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

to General Sheridan at Fort Hays. Then he 
rode over to the Perry Hotel, where formerly we 
had lived, took a nap of two hours and reported 
back to the General, 

General Sheridan in the meanwhile had found 
the necessity for sending some dispatches to 
Dodge City, ninety miles away. These Will 
volunteered to take, and within an hour was in 
the saddle and away again. At ten o'clock that 
night he reached the fort, and delivered his mes- 
sages to the commanding officer, only to learn that 
there had been fresh Indian outbreaks on the 
Arkansas River between Fort Dodge and Fort 
Larned, about sixty-five miles away and that 
other scouts had been reluctant to carry the mes- 
sages because of the dangers attendant on the 
ride. Cody asked for a few hours for rest, then 
he reported to the commanding officer that he 
was ready to make the ride, and that all he wanted 
was a fresh horse. 

But there were no fresh horses available. The 
only thing that the post could offer was a gov- 
ernment mule. Will took him, jogging out of 
the fort and urging the tough-mouthed old beast 
along as fast as he could — which was hardly ex- 
press speed. Everything went well, however, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

until Will reached Coon Creek, about thirty-five 
miles from Fort Larned, where he dismounted 
and led the mule down to the stream to drink. 
As he did so, the contrary old government 
animal jerked away from Will, showed the first 
burst of speed since the start at Fort Dodge, and 
ran down the valley. Will followed, hoping that 
he would stop — but there was no stopping for 
that mule. Finally he got back on the road again 
and started a jogging trot toward Fort Larned, 
while Will trailed along in the rear. And that 
procession kept up through the night, Will walk- 
ing the thirty-five miles, with the sight of a riding 
animal always just before him, but always out of 
reach. 

Will, when he got really and truly angry, 
didn't have the sweetest temper in the world. 
And by the time the sun rose, he was just about 
ten degrees higher than fever heat in his attitude 
toward that mule. Suddenly, the soldiers in 
Fort Larned heard the sound of a shot about a 
half mile away. Then another and another and 
another. When they reached the place where the 
shooting had occurred, they found Will standing 
over a dead mule, cussing energetically. 

"Boys," he said, "there's the toughest, mean- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

est mule I ever saw in my life. He made me 
walk all night and I decided that he wouldn't 
ever do that to another fellow. So I executed 
him, and I'll be jiggered if it didn't take six 
shots to make him stop kicking!" 

Will delivered his messages, but his work was 
not yet over. There were rush dispatches to go 
back to General Sheridan at Fort Hays and the 
next morning Will rode into the General's office 
and presented them, after having ridden, horse- 
back and muleback, and walked, three hundred 
and fifty-five miles in fifty-eight hours, and with 
practically no rest. And all of this following a 
day and a night in the saddle during the trailing 
of Santanta's Indian band and the battle which 
followed! Is it any wonder, therefore, when I 
look back upon such accomplishments as this, that 
I feel a pride in having been the wife of Buffalo 
Bill, an honor that can be equaled by few women 
in the world? 

By this time Will had the rank of Colonel, and 
was chief of scouts wherever he served. It was 
not long until he was transferred by General 
Sheridan to the Fifth Cavalry, under Brevet 
Major General E. A. Carr, as the chief of scouts, 
in the campaign of that regiment against the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Dog Soldiers," a group of renegade Indians 
that was wandering about the country, destroying 
settlements and killing pioneers throughout the 
entire Western district of Kansas. A winter 
campaign was made, then one in the summer, and 
it was during this time that the battle of Sum- 
mit Springs occurred. 

Back in old St. Louis I picked up the paper 
one morning, to see the name of "Buffalo Bill" 
staring at me from the headlines. There had 
been a terrific battle in the West, a great Indian 
camp had been attacked by General Carr's com- 
mand, just after the discovery had been made 
by Buffalo Bill of the burning of a wagon train. 
Tracks had been seen leading away in the sand, 
which showed that the Indians had captured two 
white women and that they were being taken to 
the Sioux camp. The Fifth Cavalry had fol- 
lowed, an attack had been made, and one of the 
women, a Mrs. Weichel, the wife of a Swedish 
settler, had been rescued. The other, Mrs. Al- 
derdice, had been killed by the squaw of the In- 
dian chief, Tall Bull. 

And, according to the story in the newspaper, 
the rescue of Mrs. Weichel had been thrilling. 
Tall Bull had her by her hair, and was just rais- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ing his tomahawk, when there suddenly sounded 
the rush of hoofs and the banging of a gun in the 
hands of Buffalo Bill, with the result that an- 
other renegade had traveled to the happy hunt- 
ing grounds. 

So much for the story in the newspaper. Just 
the other day I picked up a history of the West, 
and there again read the account of that rescue 
and the blood-chilling killing of Tall Bull. But 
sometimes, even history can be wrong. For in- 
stance 

It was not long afterward that I heard the 
booming of a big voice and I rushed out of the 
house, followed by Arta, to the embrace of my 
husband's great, strong arms. 

"Got a month's leave," he announced. 
"Couldn't stay away any longer, Lou. And 
what's more, I've got big news! We're going to 
have a home !" 

But I could only stare at him. It was my hus- 
band, and yet it was not my husband. Where 
the close cropped hair had been were long, flow- 
ing curls now. A mustache weaved its way out- 
ward from his upper lip, while a small goatee 
showed black and spot-like on his chin. Even the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

news of a home-to-be could not take away the 
astonishment. 

"What on earth have you done, Will?" I 
asked. 

"Just grown whiskers and a little hair," he an- 
nounced. "Like it?" 

"It isn't a bit becoming," I said with a woman's 
air of appraisal. "What on earth did you grow 
it for?" 

"Why, I had to," he explained boyishly. "It's 
the fashion out West now. You're not a regular 
scout unless you've got this sort of a rigout." 

He pointed generally to himself, and I noticed 
the beaded buckskin coat, the leggins and beaded 
cuffs. But I had seen all that before. It was 
the arrangement of hair that had stunned me — 
there was a womanish something about it all. 
Perhaps I had been too long in St. Louis. 

"Well, I can't say it's very becoming," I ob- 
jected again. Will appeared pained. 

"If — if you don't like it, Lou," he said lugubri- 
ously, "I'll cut it off. Only — only I'd be kind of 
out of place with the boys, and " 

I had caught the disappointment in his eyes, 
and was laughing. 

"Oh, go on, Will," I prevaricated, "I was just 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

fooling you to see what you'd say. I really 
think it's quite nice." 

"Honest?" He brightened. 

"Of course I do. I wouldn't have you cut it 
off for the world!" 

And if I could have looked ahead into the years 
that were to follow, when that long hair was to 
turn to white, when that goatee and mustache 
and countenance were to be known to every boy 
and girl throughout the United States, and a 
great share of the world, there would have been 
a great deal more of sincerity in that sentence. 
I'm afraid that even with the stories of his 
prowess on the plains, Buffalo Bill would not 
have been Buffalo Bill without that long hair, 
without that mustache and that little goatee — at 
least, he would not have been the unusual ap- 
pearing character that he was, nor would he 
have been as handsome. And sometimes, as I 
look at his picture now — and long for the time 
when I can be with him again — I shudder a little 
at the thought of what a woman's whim might 
have done. 

As for Will and myself, the subject of 
coiffures was quickly lost in the news he had 
brought. He was going to be sent to Fort Mc- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Pherson, to be stationed permanently there as 
long as he desired. He still was to carry the 
title and rank of Colonel, and already the sol- 
diers were building a little log cabin, just outside 
the fort, which was to be our home. Before long, 
I could again turn my face toward the West, this 
time to stay. 

It was during this visit that I got out the news- 
paper which told the story of the battle of Sum- 
mit Springs and of the killing of Tall Bull. 

"I'm terribly proud of that," I said as I showed 
him the clipping. Will read, then that amused 
grin came to his lips. 

"Only one trouble with it," he told me at last, 
"and that is that I didn't do any rescuing. But, 
Lou, I sure did get a wonderful horse!" 

"But what's the horse got to do with the kill- 
ing of Tall Bull?" 

"Well, just about everything in the world. 
I'm not going to work myself half to death to 
kill an Injun just for the fun of it. You see, 
after I'd found those footprints and all that sort 
of thing, we made an attack on the camp and all 
the Injuns ran away. Well, we got the body of 
Mrs. Alderdice buried and Mrs. Weichel fixed 
up all right — the old squaw had chopped her up 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

some with that hatchet — and then, all of a sud- 
den, I saw the Injuns coming back. The next 
thing we knew, we were all fighting fit to kill 
and there were more Injuns flying around there 
than you could shake a stick at. 

"Then, all of a sudden, I noticed an old chief 
yapping around and begging his warriors to fight 
until they died, and, Lou, he was riding the most 
beautiful horse that I ever saw in my life. So 
I just said to myself that I'd get that horse. 

"But I didn't want to take a chance on wound- 
ing it. There was a gulley right along the battle- 
field, so I started to sneak down it. An Injun 
up on the hill saw me and began pecking away at 
me with his gun and I had to turn around and 
shoot him before I could get any peace and quiet. 
Then about a hundred feet farther on, another 
one bobbed up and started to make motions with 
his gun and I had to put him away too. By this 
time I was getting pretty near disgusted. And 
then, when I slipped on a rock and skinned my 
knee, I just sat down and cussed. 

"But I kept on, and finally I picked myself out 

a place where I knew that Injun would pass if 

he kept on exhorting his warriors the way he 

had been. I was pretty much inside the Injun 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

lines now, and most any minute one of those 
tomahawkers might come along and begin carv- 
ing on me — but I wanted that horse. And, by 
golly, I got him. First thing I knew, along sailed 
old Tall Bull, talking and yelling fit to kill, and 
I decided to stop the whole shooting match right 
then and get some peace around there, to say 
nothing of that horse. So I just up and banged 
away, and, Lou, I've got the finest riding horse 
now that you ever looked at." 

So that is the story of the killing of Tall Bull 
that Buffalo Bill told me, his wife. Many times 
afterward he laughed at the historical account of 
the killing — one out of the many heroic things 
with which he is credited that he did not ac- 
complish. Nor did he ever claim it. 

A glorious, happy month there in Old St. 
Louis, then Will went away again. But we were 
to meet soon, this time not to part for years. 

It was late in August, 1869, that I stepped off 
the train in Omaha, to find Will awaiting Arta 
and me. Then together we made our way by 
rail and wagon train out to Fort McPherson, on 
the forks of the North and South Platte, twenty 
miles south of which is now North Platte, 
Nebraska. 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Only a frontier trading post it was, with the 
houses of the few settlers and traders a few 
hundred yards from the fort proper. And there, 
in the trading post of William Reed, we stayed 
until the log house was completed. 

A wonderful thing it was, according to the 
standards of the West in those days. The com- 
manding officer of the fort had allowed Will to 
take a number of tents which had been con- 
demned, and with these the walls had been lined, 
after a chinking of mud had been placed against 
all the logs. An old army stove had been pro- 
cured somewhere and set up in the kitchen to 
serve as a combination instrument of heating and 
cooking. Then, with the first wagon train from 
Cheyenne, bearing the furniture that Will had 
ordered, we moved into our new home. 

But Will seemed worried. Something was 
missing. Piece after piece of furniture, such as 
it was, we unpacked; bundle after bundle we 
opened, but the object of his search did not 
make its appearance. At last there was noth- 
ing left to investigate and Will straightened up 
from his work. 

"Guess I've got to ride into Cheyenne and 
get it myself," he said with an air of finality. 
16X 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Get what?" I asked. 

"Not going to tell you," came his anwser. "It's 
a surprise. Of course, they had to go and leave 
it out. But never mind, I'll bring it back." 

Cheyenne was far more than a hundred miles 
away, but Will kissed the baby and me and 
walked out to his horse like a man going down 
to the drug store for a cigar. Soon he had faded 
in the distance as his horse scurried over the sand- 
hills, not to appear until days later. Then, dusty, 
but radiant, he dropped from his horse, and 
lugged a bundle into the house. 

"There it is!" he proclaimed proudly. "There's 
something worth looking at!" 

I opened the bundle. It was wall paper ! 

It was not exactly what he had wanted, to be 
sure. The flowers were small, and the back- 
ground placid. But it was wall paper and that 
was all that counted. Will looked about him ap- 
praisingly. 

"Got any flour?" he asked. 

"Plenty." 

"Put some of it on the stove and heat it up — 
you know — with water. Think I'll do a little 
paper hanging." 

"But, Will, can't the soldiers " 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Nope! Any wall paper that I have to go to 
Cheyenne to get, I'll paste up. Might as well 
make it a good job all the way around." 

Whereupon, while I prepared the paste, Will 
departed for Mr. Reed's store, to return a few 
moments later, lugging a rickety stepladder, and 
a broad paint brush. Then he spread a roll of 
wall paper on the floor and began to sop it with 
paste. 

And from then on, things happened. Will 
got paste in his eyes, he got paste in his hair and 
paste in his mustache. One strip would hang 
beautiful and straight ; another would take a sud- 
den notion to curl and crinkle, while Will, balan- 
cing himself on the rickety stepladder would sing 
and whistle and say things to himself and — now 
and then I would walk out into our little yard 
and let him get the cuss words out of his system 
that I knew were seething there. Then I would 
come back, Arta at my side, to watch the wonder- 
ful operation of papering our home. 

Had Will continued at the job, it undoubtedly 
would have been a marvelous piece of work. 
Sometimes the flowers matched; most of the time 
they didn't. Sometimes the paper was cut too 
short and sometimes too long. Often it curled 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

and crinkled like some old, dried piece of parch- 
ment and positively refused to take any definite 
position on the canvas whatever. But Will per- 
sisted at his self-appointed task, and it was not 
until the rickety old ladder, groaning and grunt- 
ing under his weight, finally brought him, his 
brush and half the wall paper clattering down 
upon the floor that he decided to retire from the 
field of operations. 

Carefully I unwound the paper from about his 
neck and shoulders where most of it had settled, 
sticking to his buckskin coat with a tenacity that 
it had never shown on the wall, whitening his 
mustache and goatee and hair and giving him 
much of the appearance that one sees in a motion 
picture after the throwing of the fateful custard 
pie. Just as carefully Will arose and stared at 
the wrecked result of his efforts as an interior 
decorator. He rubbed his brow with a pasty 
hand. 

"I guess I'm more of a success as an Injun 
killer," he mused, and the job was left to the 
soldiers. 

They showed more aptitude, with the result 
that Will and Arta and I soon had a cozy, happy 
little home. Fall was coming, and with it the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

cold snap of the wind and now and then a flurry 
of snow, or the sweeping swirl of a sandstorm. 
But we did not mind. We were happy and com- 
fortable and warm, sitting by the fire o' nights, 
Will with Arta on his lap, telling her stories of 
the days when she was a wee, tiny baby, and 
when her mother was a tenderfoot straight from 
the big city, and oh, so afraid of the West. Will 
always loved to tell those things — and all for the 
reason that he knew that I would answer him 
with a story on himself, such as his race on Brig- 
ham when he wore the Little Red Riding 
Suit, or the time when he rode "mule express" 
and walked all the way. No man ever lived who 
had a greater sense of humor than Buffalo Bill, 
and the best part of it all was the fact that the 
story he loved the best was the one which had him 
as the butt end of the joke. 

We were very happy. The Indians were giv- 
ing little trouble, game was plentiful, and there 
was rarely a night that Will was forced to spend 
away from me. But as winter came on and the 
plains grew white with snow, the inevitable 
change approached. 

Outside the cabin, the wind was screaming and 
whining one evening, as Will and Arta and I sat 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

before the fire, talking and laughing and joking 
as usual. Now and then a flurry of snow would 
sift against the little windows, indicative of the 
blizzard that was sure to come during the night. 

And as we sat there A shouting voice. A 

clattering knock on the door. The call of: 

"Cody! Cody!" 

Will leaped to his feet. A second more and he 
had opened the door, to find one of the scouts 
there, fidgeting, anxious. 

"Injuns, Bill!" came his sharp greeting. 
"They've gone on the path. Sioux!" 

Already I was at Will's side with his heavy 
coat, his cap, his gloves and rifle. A hasty good- 
by and he was gone. Ten minutes later I heard 
the faint call of "boots and saddles" from the fort, 
then the sound of many horses as the soldiers 
rode forth. And I knew that far in front of 
them, riding hard and fast against the wind, was 
my husband, facing the dangers of darkness, of 
snow and of cold, to take up his position in the 
advance and to give the warning that would lead 
to battle. 

But the same sort of thing had happened be- 
fore in my life, and I took it as I had always 
166 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

taken it. Long before Will had told me never 
to worry, never to fret for him. 

"It's bad luck, Lou," he had said. "I'm al- 
ways the first one to go out and I'll always be 
the first to come back. If I know that you are 
worrying about me, that will make me worry too 
— and some day it may make me lose my head, 
just when I need it worst." 

I had promised and kept my word — and Will 
had kept his also. Galloping always in the ad- 
vance of a command that he might scout out the 
country and report the signs of Indians, Will 
inevitably was the first to hurry forth on the call 
to action. But just as he had said, he was al- 
ways the first to gallop back into camp after 
the fighting was over and the troops returning, 
that he might bring the news of the engagement 
and assure me of his safety. 

And so I did not worry, except for his comfort 
and for his health. The wind became sharper and 
colder, and with the change the flurries of snow 
changed to a straight driving sheet of white that 
fairly seemed to cut through the air, heaping 
itself up against the window ledges, sifting 
through the tiny chink beneath the door and 
through the one or two wee holes that had been 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

left where the window sashes had been set into 
the logs. For a long time I sat in front of the 
fire, Arta in my arms, until she went to sleep. 
Then I put her to bed, and went back to my 
chair, to doze a while before retiring. 

It was an hour or so later that I awakened 
with a start. Some one was at the door, pound- 
ing hard against it and calling. I answered the 
knock, and a snow-whitened soldier hurried in 
out of the wind. 

"The Major would like to see Colonel Cody, 
please." 

"Colonel Cody is out — scouting. He went out 
with the detachment that left here early in the 
evening," I said. 

The soldier appeared puzzled. 

"But that detachment came back, Mrs. Ccdy." 

"Back?" A quick fear shot through my heart. 
"How long ago?" 

"About an hour and a half." 

"Well, then, maybe the Colonel is over at the 
fort. Did you look?" 

"Yessum. At the officers' club and every- 
where. Nobody'd seen him. So I thought " 

My hands were clasped until they were white. 
The detachment had come back — but somewhere, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

out in that blizzard, was my husband. And I 
knew he was in danger! I seized my greatcoat 
and hurried toward the fort with the soldier. Just 
as we reached the dim lights of the gate, I saw a 
group of men gathered about something. I hur- 
ried forward — it was Will's horse, which had just 
come in — riderless! 

"Boots and saddles" was being sounded again 
— and I knew that this time they were calling for 
aid, aid for my husband, somewhere out there in 
the blizzard. Perhaps already he was dead, per- 
haps a victim of a lurking Indian's bullet ; no one 
knew. The command of the party had deemed 
it wisest to turn back, so that undoubtedly the 
Indians would be forced to seek cover from 
the storm and hunting them would be useless 
with the blizzard covering every track, every 
mark which could give an indication of their 
progress. And with the turning back, Cody had, 
as usual, forged ahead. But here was his horse, 
without its rider. 

There was nothing to do but to go back again 
and wait — back to the little log home where we 
had laughed and joked by the fireside only a few 
hours before — back to wait until some word 
should come from the searchers, and the informa- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

tion as to whether Will, my Will, were alive or 
dead. 

And oh, the agony of waiting! Waiting with- 
out the knowledge of what is happening out there 
somewhere, without the faintest hint of the ac- 
cident or the disaster that has befallen the man 
you love! Nothing! Just empty nothing; with 
the moaning of the cold, cutting wind to send a 
thousand fears clutching at your heart, the sift- 
ing of the snow to remind you that out on the 
plains the drifts were heaping higher and higher, 
and that one of them might conceal the body of 
the great-hearted boy — and that is just what he 
was — who was yours. 

My throat was dry and parched, my whole 
body burning as with a fever, yet I was cold — 
cold with fear. Dully I heard the soft thudding 
of hoofs as the men rode forth on their cold mis- 
sion; anxiously I awaited the same sound that 
would tell of their return, and perhaps some 
news for me. But it did not come. 

The minutes lengthened to hours, while I stood 
at the window, wiping the frost away and watch- 
ing the faint swirl of the snow, extending only 
as far as the light from within extended, yet 
watching nevertheless. I at least was looking 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

into the outside world, and that world contained 
my husband. 

Waiting — waiting ! You who live the peaceful 
life of to-day, with comforts all about you, with 
telephones, with every convenience, have little 
idea of what that word means — waiting, while 
men rode out into the trackless prairie where the 
snow whirled and sifted, where every track 
vanished almost as soon as it was made, waiting 
without even the knowledge of what I was wait- 
ing for — such was my night. The hours dragged 
by, ever and ever so slowly. Then, as daylight 
came, and I could stand the strain no longer, I 
wrapped myself in my greatcoat and started out 
into the snow. 

I had hardly gone more than a hundred yards 
when a cry came from my lips, and I started for- 
ward. Away off in the dull gray of the distance, 
a form was stumbling forward, falling, rising, 
then stumbling on again. I called, but there 
came no answer. Again I called as I ran for- 
ward, and I saw the figure faintly raise an arm 
and endeavor to wave. Then it sank to the snow 
again. It was Will, my husband. 

Hurriedly I reached his side and helped him 
to rise. His features were blue from the intense 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

cold, his lips chattering from the fatigue and ex- 
posure. My strength suddenly became super- 
human ; small as I was in comparison to his great 
frame, I put my arm about him, and my shoulder 
beneath his armpit, and almost carried him to 
the cabin, there to support him to the bed, where 
he fell unconscious. 

Hurriedly I ran to the fort and summoned 
the doctor, returning with him just as the first of 
the searchers came in with the news that they had 
trailed the tracks of a man to the cabin, and in- 
quired if Will had gotten safely home. It was 
with happiness and fear that I replied in the 
affirmative. Happiness for his return, fear for 
what the doctor might say, and what might follow 
as the result of his exposure. 

Will was conscious when we reached him, and 
as I rubbed his half-frozen hands with snow, he 
told of the accident which had nearly caused his 
death. He had been hurrying home to me and 
he had not watched his progress as closely as he 
should. Soon he realized that he was off the trail, 
traveling blindly in the darkness and fast-driven 
snow. Then a rocking crash, a fall, and when he 
again became conscious, it was with the realiza- 
tion that he lay at the bottom of a ravine into 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

which his horse had stumbled, and that the horse 
was gone. And through the night he had 
wandered in the blizzard, at last to strike the 
faint, snow-covered evidences of the trail again, 
and to fight his way homeward. 

While he talked the doctor made his examina- 
tion, anointed the bruises, bandaged the torn 
flesh resultant from the fall in the ravine and 
then gave his verdict: 

"He'll be all right again in a few days." 
And then my tears came, tears of happiness, 
to eyes that had been dry and staring through- 
out the long night. Of such, sometimes consisted 
the life of the wife of a winner of the West. 



CHAPTER VIII 

In fact, life on the plains had many a diversity. 
Will's adventure in the blizzard became history 
within a week or so, and he was once more up 
and out on the range, driving the Indians off the 
warpath, while I drove them away from the house 
in which we lived. For I had my Indian battles 
as well. 

Some of them are laughable now, as I look 
back upon them from the safe distance of many 
years. But in those days they were serious af- 
fairs, to say nothing of being vexatious. It's not 
the cheeriest feeling in the world to be sitting in 
the old rocking chair, with your daughter beside 
you, comfortably sewing in the radius of heat 
thrown out by the old army stove — then suddenly 
to become aware of the fact that some one is 
staring at you through a window, and look up 
to find that some one an Indian. That happened 
more than once. 

And more than once they ran away, more 
frightened at the sight of Pahaska's wife than of 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Pahaska himself. With the growing of that long 
hair, Will had become the recipient of a new name 
from the Indians, that of Pahaska, or "the long- 
haired man," and as Pahaska's wife, I had plenty 
of Indian victories to my credit — as well as a 
good many defeats. 

In the little circle in which we lived were just 
six log huts, the nearest of which was the one oc- 
cupied by William MacDonald, a trader. The 
result was that when Will was out on a scouting 
expedition and Mr. MacDonald was busy with 
the work of his trading post, Mrs. MacDonald 
would come over to my house, and together we 
would do our sewing or laundry — for servants 
were an unknown quantity at Fort McPherson. 
On these visits, I always noticed that Mrs. Mac- 
Donald would bring a package which I could see 
contained a bottle, and place it within easy reach. 

"Indian medicine," she explained the first time, 
as though I would understand, and then said no 
more about it. Nor did I question. 

Time after time she visited the cabin, finally to 
look out toward the ravine just back of the house 
one day as we were ironing, and leap to her 
package. 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Indians," she exclaimed, "they're coming 
right this way." 

I hurried to the window. 

"Sioux!" There was fear in my voice as I 
noticed their headgear, their dress and accouter- 
ments. They were sneaking along, taking ad- 
vantage of every gulley, every natural hiding 
place — a band of raiders, creeping in as close as 
possible upon the fort to steal what they could, 
then to make their escape. I heard Mrs. Mac- 
Donald take the wrapping from the package she 
always carried, then turn in my direction. 

"All right," she called. "Take it— quick!" 

I looked at her, to see her waving a hatchet in 
one hand, and holding forth a bottle of what 
looked like whisky in the other. I gasped — but 
she smiled quickly. 

"It's only cold tea," she said hurriedly. "In- 
dians are afraid of a drunken woman. So we've 
got to be drunk — quick!" 

I felt like a tenderfoot. And yet, I had never 
been in a situation just like this before. There 
came a slight sound from the other part of the 
house and I turned apprehensively with the 
thought of Arta, my little daughter, whom I had 
left asleep in the next room. Just then the door 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

opened and she came trotting in, to stop staring 
as she saw Mrs. MacDonald. I hurried to her. 

"You must appear frightened, Honey," I said 
quickly. "Indians!" 

She began to cry, and we encouraged her in 
it. Then, with one sweep, I pulled my hair over 
my eyes, and grasped the bottle of cold tea that 
Mrs. MacDonald had thrust in my direction, just 
as the first of the Sioux approached the house. 
Mrs. MacDonald screamed, like an insane 
woman. 

"Give me that girl!" she cried, and started in 
my direction, swinging the hatchet. Wildly she 
waved it in the air, and crashed it down on the 
ironing board, ruining a perfectly new blanket, 
and splitting the board from end to end. Arta 
cried louder than ever. I reeled about the room, 
the hair hanging over my eyes, acting as though 
I were trying to drink from the bottle, and was 
too intoxicated to do so. And as I staggered 
toward the window, I saw a face that was more 
frightened even than that of my daughter's. 

It was a Sioux chieftain, standing there, his 

eyes popping, his mouth hanging wide open. Only 

a moment more did he stare, then I saw him leap 

away and gesticulate wildly. Hurriedly, three 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

others joined him, and from a distance stood a 
second, looking in on our masquerade. Then 
came a guttural warning: 

"Wanitch! Lile sietche! Lile sietche!" 
Perhaps my spelling is wrong, after all these 
years, but I'll never forget the words. Again 
the warning sounded, telling the others that we 
were bad, bad, worse than bad, and that it was 
time to move. A hurried pow wow, then down 
the ravine raced fifteen or twenty bow-legged 
Sioux warriors, running as hard as they could 
from two women and a little girl. I gathered 
Arta to me as quickly as I could and soothed 
her fears. Then Mrs. MacDonald and I sank 
into the two chairs that the room afforded, took 
one look at each other and laughed until our 
sides ached. Truly there never existed two more 
maudlin appearing persons than she and I 
seemed to be just at that moment. Our hair 
stringing about our faces, our dresses splattered 
with the contents of the cold tea bottle, Mrs. Mac- 
Donald still with that hatchet clutched tight in 
her hand, and the smashed ironing board leaning 
all awry — realism appeared everywhere. And 
in spite of the fact that we were quaking from 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

fright, we laughed until we almost rolled out of 
our chairs. 

So passed my first real visit from the Indians. 
I was to have many more, of a different type. 
The Pawnees, friendly though they were, had 
just been mustered out of service as United 
States soldiers, and they naturally felt that they 
still had the right to go and come about the fort 
as they always had done. Coupled with this was 
the fact that restrictions had been removed from 
them and the watch which had been kept on them 
while they had been in uniform had lessened in 
a great degree. Therefore the houses of the 
settlers outside the fort soon began to feel their 
presence, mine especially. 

They were the ones who peered through the 
windows, or who more than once simply stalked 
into the house, bobbed their heads and grinned, 
said, "How kola" and proceeded to make a grab 
for anything eatable in sight. I don't believe I 
ever saw a Pawnee Indian in my life when he 
wasn't hungry. At least, none of them ever 
showed themselves about the Cody cabin. And I 
remember one time when they were particularly 
gifted with hunger, while I 

Well, Will had come to me, all excited, with 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the light in his eyes that always glowed when 
something wonderful was about to happen. 
Hurriedly he surveyed my little pantry, then 
grunted. 

"Guess I'd better start making tracks for the 
hunting grounds," he exclaimed. "Fine people 
coming, Mamma. We're going to entertain 
royalty!" 

"Royalty?" I blinked. "In this little log 
house?" 

Will looked at me and chuckled. 

"That's why they're coming here," he an- 
swered. "A log house is just as much of a 
novelty to them as their big houses would be to 
us. Just got the word up at the fort. They're 
going to be here day after to-morrow. Where's 
my gun?" 

He already had it in his hand and was examin- 
ing it carefully. He started toward the door, 
then stopped. 

"I'm just going to bring in an antelope and 
some sage chickens and stuff like that," he an- 
nounced. "It'll just be that sort of a dinner 
and " 

"But, Will," I begged, "I don't even know 
who it's for yet." 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"That's right!" He cocked his head. "Got so 
excited that I forgot all about it. It's Lord and 
Lady Dunraven from England, and Lord Finn 
from Australia. They're coming out here to see 
what the West looks like and, of course, it's sort 
of our business to entertain them. They won't 
live here" — he laughed as he looked at the rather 
meager furnishings of the little home — "but we'll 
have a spread for them. So I'm going out now 
to get the fixings." 

He kissed me good-by, lifted Arta in his great 
arms, swung her high in the air and planted her 
on the floor again. Then with a booming good- 
by he was gone, while I faced the problem of 
entertaining royalty in a log cabin. 

As soon as I could I hurried to the person who 
was always my good friend, Mrs. MacDonald. 
Together we schemed and devised, and in her 
kitchen we cooked the pies and cakes that must 
accompany the dinner. The next day Will came 
home lugging sage chicken and an antelope slung 
across his saddle. We took the choicest, tenderest 
portions, and planned the great meal. 

And what a meal it was to be! Mrs. Mac- 
Donald and I were up at five o'clock in the morn- 
ing and at work in that kitchen, roasting and 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

basting, flying about here and there, trying to do 
impossible things with the cooking utensils we 
possessed, hurrying to and from the trading post, 
and rushing about as though it were our last day 
on earth. Gradually we began to get the meal 
assembled, after we had lugged almost every- 
thing that the trading post possessed over to the 
little cabin, to make the place presentable for 
the great guests. The hours passed. Mealtime 
came, and with everything warming on the stove, 
we shut the kitchen door and went into the "set- 
ting room-dining room" to receive the guests. 

Soon they came, Lord and Lady Dunraven 
first, and Lord Finn following. Mrs. MacDon- 
ald and myself had been trembling somewhat 
with excitement — and this, accompanied by the 
booming excitement of Will as he told them 
about the building of the cabin, his attempts at 
hanging wall paper and the various vicissitudes 
we had undergone in trying to make our home 
out here on the plains, made the moments pass 
far quicker than I imagined. At last, however, 
I started slightly at a punch on the knee from 
Mrs. MacDonald and I turned to see her nod in 
the direction of the kitchen. I rose. 

"Now if you'll just all take seats," I an- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

nounced, "Mrs. MacDonald and I will serve the 
dinner. You see," I laughed, ' 'we don't have ser- 
vants out here like you do in England." 

Lady Dunraven smiled and rose. 

"Can't I help?" she asked. 

"I wouldn't think of it! Besides, there isn't so 
much to bring in. Now, you all just sit down 
here and be comfortable. Mrs. MacDonald and 
I will look after all the fixings. Better begin to 
whet up that knife, Will!" 

"That's what I had," boomed my husband. 
"Tell you right now, Lord Dunraven, you may 
have a lot of things over in England that we 
haven't got out here in the West, but you haven't 
got the game. No sirree, bob! Just wait 'til 
you taste that antelope. Killed him myself when 
I heard you were coming and " 

I lost the rest of it. I had opened the kitchen 
door, to stand a moment aghast, then to rush for- 
ward in white anger, seize the big coffee pot and 
slosh the whole contents of it across the room. 
For where the dinner had been was now only a 
mass of messy, mussed over dishes ! The kitchen 
was full of Pawnees ! And the Pawnees were full 
of the dinner that had been cooked for royalty ! 

Wildly they scrambled as the hot coffee 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

scorched them, waving their arms and jumping 
and struggling to get out the door. A long stick 
of wood lay in the corner and I seized it, calling 
for my husband as I did so. Then, without 
stopping to see whether or not he was coming, I 
lit into those Indians ! 

"Get out of this house!" I screamed at them, 
pounding away with my club. "If I ever catch 
you in here again " 

"Yes, don't you dare ever come near this 
house!" A slapping, banging sound, and I 
realized Mrs. MacDonald was beside me, whang- 
ing away at them with a broom. And above all 
of it we heard the sound of heavy, rumbling 
laughter and: 

"That's right, Mamma! Give it to 'em! That's 
right — that's right!" 

I stopped and turned. 

"Will Cody!" I snapped. And then the tears 
came. Will's laughter ceased immediately. 
Hurriedly he came forward and put his arms 
about me, while their Lordships and her Lady- 
ship watched somewhat surprisedly from the 
door. 

"There, there," he comforted me, "I'll get 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

those Injuns to-morrow and scalp every one of 
'em!" 

"They — ate — up — my dinner!" I sobbed. Will 
couldn't hold back a chuckle. 

"Well," he answered, "a part of it was mine. 
So I guess we've both got cause to get mad. But 
don't worry, Mamma. There's plenty to eat up 
at the fort." 

Thus went glimmering our first attempt at 
feeding royalty. I took one last, tear-dimmed 
look at the sodden remains of my feast, and then 
we all went to the fort for the food that should 
have been served on the Cody table. But just 
the same, while I saw a good many Indian faces 
after that, I never saw one of the group of 
Pawnees that sneaked into my kitchen and ate 
the food of royalty. 

So went my life, day after day — and some- 
times there were incidents in my "Indian cam- 
paign" that were far from ludicrous. 

As I have said, there was a ravine just back 
of our little home through which the Indians often 
sneaked in their raiding expeditions on the fort. 
The Pawnees rarely frightened me, for they were 
a friendly, good humored lot as a rule, grinning 
and foolish and thieving, and it was nothing to 
185 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

run them away. But when the Sioux came ! 

Arta and myself were sunning ourselves in the 
big chair one afternoon and dozing. Will had 
left for the fort only a short time ago with Texas 
Jack, who had stopped in from one of his scout- 
ing expeditions. Everything was peaceful and 
quiet, when suddenly I heard the slamming of a 
door from the other part of the house and the 
hurried swish of moccasined feet. I leaped from 
my chair and ran into the other room, leaving 
Arta behind me. 

"Get out of here!" I cried as I sighted the first 
of a number of Pawnees crowding into the 
kitchen. But they did not obey. I started for- 
ward, suddenly to come face to face with Old 
Horse, one of the Indians who had served in the 
army and who could speak English. He stopped 
me. 

"Sioux!" he exclaimed, pointing excitedly out 
toward the ravine. "Sioux! Heap mad Pawnee. 
Pawnee run — no want fight. Hide here. Sioux 
goby!" 

"Go by?" I questioned in a voice of excite- 
ment. "If you think so — look!" I pointed out 
through the window, toward where the first of the 
Sioux band was making its way out of the ravine. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"They're coming here — and you can't stay! 
They'll find you " 

"We stay here!" Old Horse crossed his arms 
and shook his head. "This Pahaska's tepee. No 
come here!" 

But I knew better. The Indians were circling 
the cabin now and I rushed into the other room 
and, throwing a shawl around Arta, opened the 
window and lifted her through it. 

"Run!" I told her. "Run just as fast as you 
can and get papa. Tell him there are Indians 
here — Sioux!" 

The little girl did not even whimper. Her lips 
pressed tight, and she clenched her little hands. 

"I'll get papa," she said confidently, and her 
little legs were paddling even before she touched 
the ground. A moment more and she had dodged 
behind a slight rise in the ground and was speed- 
ing as hard as she could go toward the fort, while 
I turned to see the first of the Sioux entering my 
cabin. 

"Go away!" I commanded them. But the 
leader only looked at me and kicked at the door 
leading to the kitchen. Around at the other side 
of the house I heard other sounds which told me 
the Indians were banging away at the entrance 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

to the kitchen, trying to gain entrance there. A 
gun lay across the room and I strove to reach it, 
but the Sioux were too quick for me. One of 
them, a great, burly warrior, simply picked me 
up in his arms and carried me across the floor, 
planting me in one corner. 

"You Pahaska squaw," he said quietly. "Sioux 
no hurt Pahaska squaw. Me fight Pawnee !" 

A glimmer of hope came to me with the realiza- 
tion that he could speak and understand Eng- 
lish. 

"But there are no Pawnees " I got that far 

and stopped. Will had told me never to lie to 
an Indian. I began again on a different strain. 
"Pahaska get heap mad!" I cautioned him. 
"Pahaska kill!" 

"Me know Pahaska!" came the answer. "Me 
fight Pawnee." 

By this time one of the Indians had picked up 
the rifle and was examining it. A moment more 
and he had shot through the door, while I stood 
screaming in the corner. If Will would only 
come, if 

Far away, up at the fort, I heard the faint call 
of a bugle. I knew that call — a call that sent the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

blood racing through my veins. "Boots and 
saddles!" 

But the Sioux did not seem to hear. And it 
would mean a good ten minutes before those sol- 
diers could mount and reach the house. Unless 
something should happen before that 

A crashing sound, as the door at the rear of the 
house began to give way. A shot sounded, then 
another. Again I screamed, then, suddenly for- 
getting my fear, raced to the window at the sound 
of hoofs. 

Two men on horseback were approaching. One 
was Will, my husband. The other was Texas 
Jack. I whirled and pointed. 

"Pahaska!" I cried. The Sioux leader shouted 
a guttural command. A moment more and they 
were piling out of the house and into the little 
yard, where they faced the revolvers of Texas 
Jack and my husband. I heard a clear, com- 
manding voice. 

"Now, you Injuns make tracks — quick! Jack, 
ride around to the other side and help hold this 
bunch 'til the soldiers come — they're just start- 
ing from the fort now." He called the last part 
of the sentence to me, standing trembling in the 
door. Jack swung his horse about and rounded 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

up the recalcitrant Sioux, keeping his revolvers 
ready for instant action, while Will upbraided 
them. For, it seems, this was a small band of 
Sioux that had presumably made peace, and had 
been granted government stores on condition that 
they keep out of trouble. For a long time he 
harangued them in Sioux, then suddenly veered 
in his position, as a number of cavalrymen gal- 
loped up. 

"We'll just take these fellows out in the hills 
and give them a good start," he commanded. 
"Now " 

"But, Will!" I called from the door, "the 
house is full of Pawnees. They were fighting 
each other." 

Will jumped from his horse. 

"Jack," he ordered, "you and some of the men 
take these Injuns off to the North. I'll handle 
the Pawnees." 

A command and a number of the soldiers 
started away, driving the Indians before them. 
Will came into the house, paused just long 
enough to kiss me, then opened the door to the 
kitchen. The first Indian he saw was Old Horse, 
and reaching forward, he caught the Pawnee by 
the collar of his leather jacket. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"You old bag o' bones!" he shouted, "I'll teach 
you to come into my house!" 

He whirled him around — and then he kicked! 
I never saw an Indian move so swiftly in my life ; 
it was as though he had been lifted by a catapult, 
straight out the door and on to his face in the 
pebble-strewn yard. Will did not even stop to 
see what had become of him. He was too busily 
engaged in dragging out the other Pawnees and 
kicking them individually and collectively out of 
the house. 

There the soldiers corraled them and started 
away with them in the direction opposite to that 
which Texas Jack had taken with the Sioux. 
Five hours later, Jack and Will were back, after 
having separated their various charges by a dis- 
tance of about ten miles. But it did no good. 

Late that night a wounded Pawnee limped into 
camp, and asked for the aid of the soldiers. Again 
"boots and saddles" sounded and the cavalry, 
Will and Texas Jack leading, galloped out on 
the plains. This time the battle had been in earn- 
est. Somewhere, those Indians had procured 
enough firearms and ammunition to go round, 
and the Sioux had trailed the Pawnees until they 
had met. When the cavalry reached there, prac- 
191 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

tically every member of the Pawnee band was 
either dead or wounded, while the Sioux had 
hurried on at the first warning of soldier aid, once 
more to take to the warpath. It was poor diplo- 
macy to trust a Sioux in those days, and even 
Will learned that. 

There were, of course, many of the Indians who 
regarded him as more of a friend than an enemy. 
It was not Will's policy to kill Indians simply 
for the fun of it, or simply because an Indian on 
the warpath meant legitimate game. Will's idea 
was a far different one. He realized that the 
Indians had their claims, that they had their 
rights, and that it more than once was the fault 
of the government itself that they were forced 
to the warpath. And whenever he could, Will 
sought to impress upon them that the fighting 
game was a hard one to follow, that there were 
thousands upon thousands of white men who 
could be brought against them to exterminate 
them, even as the buffalo was being exterminated. 
He tried to teach them that the white man would 
help them if they would allow themselves to be 
helped, and that when things went wrong in the 
governmental way of running things, it did not 
always mean that the Indian was being forgotten; 
192 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

that there were those, like himself, who would 
strive always to aid and to make the Indian's 
life on the plains a bearable one. It was thus 
that he won the friendship of such Indians as No 
Neck and Woman's Dress, and Red Cloud and 
Sitting Bull and others who, in turn, helped Cody 
more than once. 

But he also experienced the sad rewards of be- 
ing a missionary. Will had been buying horses 
and among them he had purchased a racing pony 
that he called Powder Face. One night, as we 
sat in the little log cabin, Will scowled and looked 
at his fist. 

"That's what I get for trying to be good to an 
Injun," he announced. "Skinned my knuckles 
knocking the stuffing out of him to-day. He tried 
to run away with Powder Face, after I'd brought 
him into the fort so that he could see that soldiers 
wouldn't hurt him. I " 

He jumped out of his chair. From down at 
the corral had come shouts and the crackling of 
a revolver. We both knew what it meant — Will's 
entire herd of horses had been stampeded. 

He was out of the house in an instant and on 
the way to the fort for the soldiers. A short 
time later I heard them clatter by the house, and 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

then the sounds faded in the distance. For a long 
time I waited, but there came no sound of shots, 
no evidence of conflict. The chase was to be a 
long and hard one. 

It was not until late the next afternoon that 
Will came home again, tired, bedraggled — but 
grinning. Over his saddle hung two war bonnets, 
their eagle feathers trailing nearly to the ground. 
I called to him as he approached. 

"Did you find Powder Face?" 

"Find him?" he shouted back. "That horse 
was over the Great Divide before we even got 
started. But I made a record. Two Injuns at 
one shot!" 

"Two what?" I asked in astonishment as he 
descended from his horse and came to the 
door, trailing the war bonnets behind him. He 
chuckled. 

"Two Injuns. We caught up with most of 
the bunch about daylight this morning. Two of 
the critters were riding one of my horses and I 
knew there was only one way to get 'em off. So I 
just pulled the trigger and I'm blamed if the 
bullet didn't go through both of 'em!" Then his 
face grew long. "We got all the horses back 
but Powder Face. I'm sure sorry about him. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

He'd have won me all kinds of money when the 
racing started in the spring." 

"And he might have lost some for you, too," I 
laughed. For betting his last cent on the horse 
of his pride was Will's greatest amusement. And 
sometimes he lost! 



CHAPTER IX 

However, right then, there were things to take 
Will's mind off the loss of his favorite pony. One 
of them was the fact that midwinter had come 
and that Christmas was only a few weeks off. 
For Will had been deputized by the soldiers and 
officers to be the official messenger who should 
go to Cheyenne and return with the necessities 
of the Christmas season. 

And what excitement there was about it all! 
In that great camp, where lived the men who 
guarded the West, were only three children — 
three girls, the band-leader's child, Mrs. Mac- 
Donald's little daughter, and Arta. And for 
them the soldiers had saved their money that they 
might have a real Christmas, and Will was to be 
the official messenger to Santa Claus. 

I'll never forget all the conferences that were 
held. Night after night, Mrs. MacDonald in her 
little cabin, the band-leader's wife up at the fort, 
and myself, would lead the thoughts of our chil- 
dren around to Christmas, that we might learn 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the things that they most desired. Certainly that 
was not a hard thing to do, and one by one we 
gained the information we sought. Some of their 
wishes were entirely beyond the range of possi- 
bility — but where is the child who does not desire 
the impossible? And so it was with Arta and her 
two little comrades. 

However, at last Will made his start toward 
Cheyenne, with the whole long list, and with a 
face that was longer. He was going to face that 
worst of ordeals — shopping. However, he was 
brave about it. 

"Don't know what they're going to say when 
I walk in out there and ask for chiney dolls and 
all those other things out of Godey's Lady's 
Booh" he announced. "But I'll do my best. 
I'll bring back the bacon or bust!" 

And so he rode away, while we three women 
turned our attention to the plans for the Christ- 
mas day entertainment. 

Of course, there must be speaking, and each 
of us picked out the piece we wanted our little 
girls to recite. I chose "The Star of Bethlehem," 
and night after night, while Will was away, I 
trained Arta in her recitation, outlining each lit- 
tle gesture, showing her how to emphasize every 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

word. I was terribly proud of her, for I felt that 
her piece would be the prettiest of all — and, well, 
you know the natural pride of a mother. 

Therefore, it was with glowing eyes that I 
greeted Will when he came back from Cheyenne, 
loaded down with packages, to say nothing of the 
wagon which followed him. It was two days be- 
fore Christmas. Up at the fort the soldiers had 
been working, sending out details into the plains 
to find the prettiest little pine trees possible, to 
be placed about the big assembly hall — and I 
knew that the whole setting would be wonderful 
for my little triumph. 

So, when Will had shown me all the presents 
he had brought for Arta from the big trading- 
post, the rag dolls, the bright bits of silk, the 
little train of cars and the inevitable fire engine ; 
the woolly dog and the other gee-gaws that had 
found their way into the Far West, I told him 
of my accomplishment. Then I added : 

"Now, Will"— I stuffed the copy of the poem 
into his hand — "you'll just have to look after 
the final training. If Arta doesn't study right 
up until the last minute, she'll be just like all 
other children. She'll get up there to speak her 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

piece and then won't remember it. That would 
be awful, wouldn't it?" 

"Sure would," he agreed earnestly. "But why 
don't you do the rehearsin'?" 

"Because, silly, I'll have to work up at the 
hall. My goodness, all those soldiers have been 
piling stuff in there for a week, and land only 
knows what we're going to do with it! They 
think that all there is to fixing up Christmas 
decorations is to go out somewhere and cut down 
a tree. Only women can look after those things 
properly; besides, there's the popcorn to string 
and the trees to decorate, and everything like 
that ! Gracious, we'll be worked to death looking 
after everything, to say nothing of all the cooking 
to 'tend to. And you haven't a blessed thing to 
do — so you can just finish teaching Arta that 
recitation." 

"But suppose the Injuns break out?" he asked 
lugubriously. 

"Well, that'll be different. But, so far, they 
haven't broken out, and, Will, you've just got 
to help me. Now won't you?" 

He bobbed his head with sudden acquiescence, 
and began to stare at the paper which I had 
shoved into his hand. 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"I'll start to-morrow," he promised faithfully. 
The next morning I went to the fort to help the 
other women with the decorations for our first 
really big Christmas on the plains. 

How we worked! How we schemed and con- 
trived to make that big hall look like a Christmas 
back home ! All in one day, there was everything 
to do — and very little to do it with. This was 
different from the land of civilization. There was 
no store to run to for an armful of tinsel, no dec- 
orator's shops to furnish holly and mistletoe and 
Christmas wreaths. The wreaths that hung upon 
the walls we made ourselves. The bright red 
berries that spotted them here and there were 
hard-rolled bits of red paper ; the greenery every- 
where had come fresh from the buttes and knolls 
of the plains, with here and there a few cactus 
spines thrown in to make things more difficult. 

The popcorn had long lain in the bins at Char- 
lie MacDonald's trading-post. It burnt, it 
parched, it did everything but pop. A hand- 
picked proposition was every puffy ball which 
went upon the strings, gleaned from skillets full 
of brown, burned kernels that had persistently 
refused to pop, to do anything in fact but scorch 
and smoke and instigate coughing and sneezing. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

But we were determined to have a regulation 
Christmas, and a few difficulties were not going 
to stop us. 

All day long we worked, and far into the night, 
hanging the various bits of greenery, cooking on 
the old range that slumped in one end of the hall, 
or decorating the trees. The soldiers, gawking 
here and there about the big room, did their best 
to help us, but where is the man who is a particle 
of good at Christmastide? Every time we would 
make a gain on the popcorn, one of them would 
come along and steal a handful, and then we 
would have to run them all out of the hall, laugh- 
ing in spite of our vexation, and start all over. 
We knew the feeling in the hearts of those men 
— they were children again, children back home, 
preparing for Christmas! 

Late into the night we cooked and slaved, while 
our husbands waited for us, in a nodding line at 
one side of the hall. At last it all was nearly 
done, and with Will I started home. 

"How did Arta get along with her piece to- 
day?" I asked. 

"Oh, fine!" Will looked straight ahead. "I 
taught her and taught her." 

"She won't forget it?" 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"No sirree! She's got it down line for line." 

I went to bed happy and expectant. Arta 
would look so sweet to-morrow. Will had 
brought her a pretty little plaid dress from 
Cheyenne that fitted her wonderfully well, con- 
sidering that a man had picked it out. Of course, 
there was the necessity for a little taking up here 
and a little letting out there, but I could get up 
early in the morning and do that before time to 
hurry to the hall again. 

So at dawn I was at work and, finally, to 
awaken Will with breakfast and with the infor- 
mation that he must be the one to dress Arta 
and bring her to the hall. I would be working 
there until the very last minute, and I simply 
wouldn't have time to come back to the house. 
Will did not object. 

"I'll have her dressed up like all get out !" was 
his cheerful announcement. "I sure want her to 
make that speech to-day!" 

"And so do I. Goodness, won't it be just too 
lovely if she's the best one there?" 

"If?" my husband questioned. "Why, there 
ain't any doubt about it. I bet Arta gets more 
hand-clappin' and shoutin' and that sort of thing 
when she does her little trick than both of those 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

other children put together. Now, just you 
watch her ! I'm handling that end of it and she's 
got all those lines down pat!" 

"Well, don't you forget to go over it two or 
three times," I ordered as I kissed him and hur- 
ried to the door. 

"Oh, we'll go over it a lot of times!" he as- 
sured me. "Just wait 'til you hear it!" 

I rushed to the hall, again to work, again to 
scheme and devise. Then, somewhat flustered, I 
seated myself as the time for the entertainment 
approached and the soldiers thumped into the 
hall. Will, dressed in his usual buckskin and 
flannel shirt, found me sitting near the rear of 
the long lines of chairs and immediately assisted 
me to my feet. 

"What?" he asked. "Sitting back here? No 
sirree ! We're going right up with the mourners !" 

"Mourners?" 

"Well, you know what I mean. Up on the 
front row where everybody can see us when Arta 
makes that speech. Got it all down pat, haven't 
you, Arta?" He beamed down at her. 

"Yes, Papa," she lisped, and a feeling of great 
pride swelled through me. Up to the front row 
we went, while the hall filled, and the Santa 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Claus of the fort, resplendent in a red flannel 
shirt hanging straight from the waist, a pair of 
riding boots that reached above his knees, and 
cotton whiskers and hair, filched from the post 
surgeon, distributed the presents. One after an- 
other they were called out, first the presents for 
the children, and then the ones for the soldiers. 
There were paper dolls and baby rattles and a 
hundred and one foolish things that Will had 
bought in Cheyenne and packed across the weary 
miles ; bottles of beer with vinegar in them, tiny 
kegs labeled in chalk: "Finest Whisky," and dis- 
closing when opened only carpet tacks, and 
everything else foolish that men can think of. 
One by one they were all doled out, and then, 
following the booming of the post quartette, the 
singing of a solo by the band-leader's wife, and a 
speech on Christmas by the Major, the recitations 
began. 

Mrs. MacDonald's little girl came first, and 
had I not known what a really wonderful pres- 
entation Arta would make, I would have been 
really jealous. Then followed the band-leader's 
daughter, with her little recitation, and then 

Arta! 

Her father carried her up to the platform, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

squared her around, patted her on the cheeks and 
hurried back to his seat. My heart thumped with 
excitement. It was Arta's first recitation. Pret- 
tily she made her little curtsy, and then, with a 
quick glance toward her father, she parted her 
lips. 

But the words that came forth! My pride 
changed to apprehension and then to wildest dis- 
may. For Arta was reciting something that I 
never had heard before, something only a few 
lines in length, that ran: 

The lightning roared, 

The thunder flashed, 

And broke my mother's teapot 

A-1-l-t-o-s-m-a-s-h ! 

Then she laughed, clapped her little hands and, 
running to her father, leaped into his lap. Will 
was almost rolling off his chair. The tears were 
running down his cheeks, his face was as red as 
a boiled beet and he was shaking with laughter 
from head to foot. As for the rest of the big 
hall, it was roaring like a summer thunderstorm, 
while I, like Cardinal Wolsey, sat alone in my 
fallen greatness. For a moment there was only 
blank dismay. Then I looked at Will and under- 
stood. 

"Willie!" I exclaimed dramatically, "I'll never 
205 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

speak to you again as long as I live. Never I 
Never! Never 1" 

But a moment later, as he choked down his 
laughter, to boom out a lump -de-de-lump to the 
tune of "Rock of Ages," the closing song of 
the celebration, I reached over, took his hand, 
squeezed it — then pressed tight my lips to keep 
from laughing myself. But never again did I 
trust to Will the task of rehearsing a child in its 
recitations ! 

However, there were plenty of times when the 
laugh could go around the other way, when it 
would be I who would chuckle at the troubles of 
my husband. One of them came shortly after 
Christmas, and with it arrived my revenge. 

Will had come home all excited — just as he in- 
variably did when something new happened in his 
career. This time he was staring at his buckskin 
clothes and at his high riding boots. 

"Mamma," he announced, "guess I'll have to 
be getting some different duds. That's all there 
is to it — different duds for a man of a high-up 
station. I'm a judge now." 

"A judge of what ?" I was busy with the cook- 
ing. Will straightened and pounded his chest. 

"Why, a judge — a regular judge, you know. 
206 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

One of those fellows that sits on a bench and 
doles out the law. Reckon I'll have to get along 
without the bench, but it'll be all right. I'll " 

"How about getting along without the law?" 
I laughed over my shoulder. Will swelled his 
chest. 

"Oh, that'll be all right. I know as much law 
as I need to know around here. It's just white 
man's law against Injun law, and you give the 
fellow what you think' s right. That's the way 
they explained it to me up at the fort. You see, 
there isn't any justice of the peace here and so 
they thought I would make the likeliest one out 
of the bunch ; so here I am, Judge Cody." 

I didn't say anything just then. And I didn't 
remind Will of the fact that he was a judge for 
several days. But I had said a good many things 
to a young soldier and a young woman who I 
knew had been thinking about getting married. 
Among the things that I pointed out to them was 
the fact that not every one could have the dis- 
tinction of being married by Buffalo Bill. It 
took. A few days later Will walked into the 
house to find the soldier and his wife-to-be wait- 
ing, while I stood at the girl's side, ready to give 
away the bride. 

207 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 
"Will," I announced, "we've been waiting for 

you." 

"For — for what?" I could see Will begin to 
appear a bit worried. 

"Why, these young people want to get mar- 
ried. And there isn't anybody here that can 
marry them but you." 

Will blinked for a second. Then he nodded 
his head and led me over to one corner. I fol- 
lowed him very seriously. 

"Isn't there any way out of this?" he asked. 

"I don't see how, Will. They're here and " 

"Well," he pressed his lips tightly together, 
"guess I've got to go through with it. Say, we 
got married once. What did the minister say?" 

"He said for me to love, honor and obey. 
That's about all I remember." 

"And wasn't there something about 'till death 
do us part'?" 

"Of course." 

"Well," and he reached for the copy of the 
statutes of Nebraska that had come into his pos- 
session with the judgeship, "I guess I'll make out. 
Anyway, it ought to all be in here." 

But evidently it wasn't. There were statutes 
on limitations of grazing lands, statutes on al- 
208 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

most everything that went with a young state, 
but there wasn't anything on marriage. A slow 
sweat began to break out on Will's forehead. 
Now and then he looked up anxiously, and his 
tongue scurried over his lips. Once he excused 
himself, and as he walked into the kitchen I saw 
him reaching for something in his hip pocket ; he 
returned licking his lips. It was one of the few 
times that Will was ever forced to resort to Dutch 
courage. Hurriedly he planted himself in the 
middle of the floor and, holding the Statutes of 
Nebraska upside down, made the pretense of 
looking at them. 

"Line up!" he ordered. The soldier and his 
bride-to-be came forward. Will poked his head 
toward the bridegroom. 

"Look here!" he questioned, "this is all in 
earnest?" 

"Why — why, of course." 

"And there isn't any monkey-fooling about it 
anywhere?" 

"No — no, sir." 

"All right, then. Because this thing's got to 
stick. I take it you two want to be hitched to 
run in double harness the rest of your life." 

"Yes, sir." 

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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Fine. You're going to take this woman to be 
your lawful wedded wife and support her and 
see that she's got a house to live in and everything 
like that?" 

"I do!" By this time the bridegroom was so 
flustered that he would have given an affirmative 
answer to anything. Will turned to the bride. 

"And you take this man to be your lawful 
wedded husband and you'll love, honor and obey 
him and cook his meals and tend to the house?" 

"I do." 

"That just about settles it. Join hands. I 
now pronounce you man and wife. Whoever God 
and Buffalo Bill have joined together, let no man 
put asunder. Two dollars, please, and" — Will 
ran a finger about the collar of his buckskin coat 
— "if you'll please pardon your husband for just 
a minute, he and I will go and have a drink!" 

However, that was simple in comparison to the 
next task which faced Will as a justice of the 
peace. This time it was not a question of joining 
two persons in wedlock, but of breaking the bands 
which held them. 

They were a man and woman who recently had 
come to camp, and their quarrels had been fre- 
quent ever since their arrival. At last came the 
210 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

day when they knocked on the door of our little 
cabin and came stalking in, glowering at each 
other. The man stared hard at Will. 

"Bill Cody," he snapped, "you do lawin', don't 
you?" 

"Off and on," said Will. "What's wrong?" 

"There's a hull lot. Me and her ain't agreein'. 
We want a divorce." 

"A who ?" Will had craned his neck forward. 

"A divorce. I ain't satisfied with her and she 
ain't satisfied with me. It's pull an' tug, tug an' 
pull, all th' time. And we want t' get unhitched." 

Once more Will reached for his Statutes of 
Nebraska. Once more he thumbed the pages. 
He turned the book foreside backwards, upside 
down, over and around again. 

"What was it you said you wanted?" he asked 
again, this time more anxiously. 

"A divorce. We want to get unhitched. Ain't 
that it, Sarah?" 

Sarah agreed emphatically that it was. Will 
nodded his head judiciously, and moistened a 
finger. 

"Um-humph," he grunted. "Divorce — di- 
vorce, Page 363, Paragraph 6. Um-humph." 
The pages turned again. Then Will squared 
211 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

himself. " 'No divorce shall be granted/ " he 
read, " 'unless' — humph! Guess maybe we'd just 
better leave out that 'unless.' 'No divorces shall 
be granted.' That sounds pretty good. Says so 
right here in the book. 'Course they shouldn't. 
'Tain't natural. Now, look here, Charlie, you 
ain't as bad off as you think you are. Sarah cooks 
good meals, don't she?" 

"Larrupin'," agreed Charlie. 

"And — Mamma!" Will turned suddenly and 
called to me, "take Sarah off there in the corner 
and talk to her. I've got a few words to say to 
Charlie." 

Obediently I led Sarah away, while Will 
dragged Charlie over behind the stove. Long we 
argued, while Sarah told me the story of all her 
troubles, stopping now and then to remark that 
everything Charlie was saying to Will was the 
finest collection of falsehoods ever fabricated. An 
hour passed. Then the tears began to flow as 
Sarah detailed the difficulties of sailing the mat- 
rimonial sea with Charlie as the pilot. Will took 
one look at her, then reaching out one great paw, 
he seized Charlie by the coat collar and yanked 
him to his feet. 

"Look at that !" he shouted. "Look at her cry- 
212 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ing! Now you just hit the trail over there and 
make up!" 

Charlie stood and sulked. 

"I'll go half way," he announced finally. Will 
turned toward me. 

"Give Sarah a push!" he ordered. 

I pushed and they met in the center of the 
room. For a moment there was silence, then a 
resounding smack of lips. Another great law 
case had been settled, and Will once more had 
established himself as an attorney of record. 
And, what is more, the last I heard of the sol- 
dier and his bride and of Charlie and Sarah, they 
still were making their way along life's road, 
agreeably hitched in the Cody brand of "double 
harness." 

And most of Will's cases turned out in about 
this way. Of statutory law there was very little, 
but of common sense there was a great deal. 
And when argument failed 

I remember a little matter that concerned the 
theft of a horse. Two men claimed it, and one 
asserted that the other had stolen it. Will reached 
for old "Lucretia Borgia" and went out with the 
claimant. 

He found the new possessor of the horse only 
a few miles from the post. 
213 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Turn over that horse," he ordered. 

"Sure," the man had taken one look at the gun. 
Will continued: "Now, listen, there ain't any 
place at the fort that ain't full up. Haven't got 
any regular jail, and I'm blamed if I'll put you 
up at a regular house. So you're fined right now. 
Fork over a hundred dollars." 

"For what?" The horse thief — if he was one 
— was becoming obstinate. 

Will shifted his gun. 

"Time and trouble of the court in coming out 
here after you, and costs of lawin' in Nebraska." 

"And what'll you do if I don't fork over?" 
The defendant was preparing to dig the spurs 
into his own horse. Will looked blankly at the 
sky. 

"Oh, nothing much," he announced. "I 
wouldn't kill you. 'Twouldn't be right, seeing 
there's some dispute about this horse and you 
really didn't steal him; just sort of took him, as 
it were. So I won't kill you. I'll — just shoot 
a leg off." 

And when Will came home, he brought with 
him a hundred dollars in gold, "costs of the case." 
Thus was law administered in the childhood days 
of the broad and brawny West. 
214 



CHAPTER X 

All this time, Will was becoming more and 
more famous throughout the East. The summer 
before, while guiding a party of Eastern hunters, 
he had met Elmo Judson, a novelist who wrote 
under the name of Ned Buntline, and had given 
him permission to write stories of Will's experi- 
ences in fiction form. It was exactly what the 
Eastern public had been waiting for, and now, 
every week, some new thrilling story, in which 
Buffalo Bill rescued maidens in distress, killed 
off Indians by the score and hunted buffalo in 
his sleep, appeared in the romantic magazines. 
Much of it, while founded on fact, was wildly 
fantastic in its treatment, and the most surprised 
man of all would be Will himself when he got 
the month-old periodicals and read of his hair- 
raising adventures. But it all had its effect. The 
East began to call for Buffalo Bill — to demand 
Buffalo Bill. But Buffalo Bill had just attended 
a horse race — time had now gone on toward mid- 
summer — and Buffalo Bill had guessed on the 
215 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

wrong horse. Then with the winter came another 
visit from royalty. 

This time it was the Grand Duke Alexis, who, 
with his retinue, traveled westward for a real shot 
at a buffalo. A month before his coming, while 
Will was out on a scouting expedition, I deter- 
mined that there would be no more visits from 
Indians, and that, this time, my kitchen would 
have some protection. I went to the fort. 

"Major," I said, "I'd like to have some wood." 

"For what?" 

"I want to build a fence." 

The Major leaned back in his chair and 
laughed. 

"Why, Mrs. Cody! Every finger will be black 
and blue! Don't you know that a woman can't 
handle a hammer ?" 

I laughed. 

"Well," I answered, "the last time Will was 
out on a scouting expedition, and I wanted some- 
thing to pass the time, I built myself a kitchen 
table. And if I can do that, I can build a fence." 

"But I'll send some soldiers down to do it." 

"Send the soldiers down with the wood and 
I'll attend to the rest." 

The Major scratched his head. 
216 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Blessed if there's any wood in camp," he said 
at last. "Except — well," and he smiled — 
"whisky comes in wooden barrels, and the can- 
teen seems to be doing a rushing business. I 
might let you have some barrel staves." 

So thus it was that our little log cabin came to 
have a picket fence in honor of the visit of Grand 
Duke Alexis. And every picket in that enclosure 
was a barrel stave! What was more, every one 
had been firmly put into place by Buffalo Bill's 
wife — I wanted to be sure that no Indians were 
coming in to eat up my cakes and pies and game 
meats this time ! 

It was a wonderful day at the fort when the 
Grand Duke and his retinue arrived. By cramp- 
ing every foot of space, we managed some way 
to get them all about the table in our little log 
house, but when it came to the reception that fol- 
lowed, that was a different matter. We had to 
hold it in the yard, in the confines of the picket 
fence — although such a thing as boundaries made 
little difference. The day was balmy, and every 
one at the fort was there at one time or another. 

Finally the Grand Duke and his hunting party 
went out on the plains — and the Grand Duke 
killed a buffalo. It was the greatest achievement 
217 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

of his life. Will could have anything — anything 
in the world. And Will named the one thing 
that had entranced him as much as the thought 
of killing buffalo had entranced the Grand Duke. 
He wanted to go back East. Grand Duke Alexis 
announced that the wish should be granted. 

Back toward New York went the Grand Duke, 
and then, six weeks later, came a letter. Will 
opened it and stared, half frightened, toward me. 
A long strip ticket was in the envelope. It was 
a railroad ticket — a ticket back East, all the way 
to New York and a pass from General Sheridan. 
Will, my husband, was about to have his Biggest 
Adventure ! 

Somewhat wildly he looked at his clothes, his 
buckskin coat, his fringed leggins, his heavy re- 
volver holster and red flannel shirt. 

"Mamma," he exclaimed woefully, "I can't 
wear this rigout. I'll — I'll have to have some- 
thing else." 

With that started a feverish week for Mrs. 
Buffalo Bill. Hurriedly we procured some blue 
cloth at the commissary and, sewing day and 
night, I made Will his first real soldier suit, with 
a Colonel's gold braid on it, with stripes and cords 
and all the other gingerbread of an old-fashioned 
218 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

suit of "blues"; dear, patient, boyish Will sitting 
anxiously to one side, then rising to try on the 
partially completed garment, getting pins stuck 
in him, squirming and twisting, then sitting down 
again to wait for another fitting. More than once 
as he waited his eyes would grow wistful, and 
there would come a peculiar downward pull to 
his lips, as he stared out the window into the far- 
away. 

"Mamma," he would say time after time, "I 
wish you were going along with me. I'm going 
to be as scared as a jackrabbit back there! I 
wish you were going along." 

But there was a beautiful little reason why I 
could not accompany him; and so, the sewing 
completed, the last basting thread pulled out of 
his new uniform, I accompanied him to the stage 
landing, and watched him ride away. And never 
did Buffalo Bill riding out to the danger of death 
look like the Buffalo Bill who rode away that day. 
He held me tight, so tight that his fingers bit 
into my arms, as he said good-by. And then 

"I sure wish you were going along." 

A kiss. A cloud of dust as the horses galloped 
away. A waving hand, fading in the distance. 
219 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

My husband had gone, gone to a land uncharted 
for him, unfamiliar and strange. 

Two months and he was back, booming and 
happy. He pulled the free air into his lungs like 
a bellows. He patted my cheeks, he kissed me, 
walked away, hurried back and kissed me again. 

"Mamma!" he exclaimed, "they almost scared 
me to death back there. They swished me here, 
there, yonder and back again; they took me in 
places where the lights were so bright that I 
could hardly see, and where women looked at me 
through spyglasses like I was one of those little 
bugs that What's-His-Name, the Professor, used 
to look at so much through that telescope last 
summer. Gosh, I was scared. Couldn't say a 
word. Just couldn't say a word, Mamma, only 
just stand there while they stared at me. Guess 
they expected me to pull out a couple of shootin' 
irons and put out all the lights. Gosh, I was 
scared!" 

And so it was that when a letter came from 
Elmo Judson, telling Will how much money he 
could make by going on the stage, Will simply 
laid it aside and whooped. 

"A whole hall full of women looking at me 
through those spyglasses!" he exclaimed. "Not 
220 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

much ! Out here in the West is good enough for 
me. Why, Mamma, I'm such a tenderfoot right 
now from being away, that I'd run if I even saw 
an Injun!" 

But a few days changed all that. At the next 
call of "boots and saddles," there was Will, home 
again, leading the galloping procession as it raced 
out upon the plains, the fringe of his buckskin 
flying in the wind, his broad hat flapping, his 
eyes as keen and as bright as ever, his finger ever 
ready at the trigger for the sight of the Enemy 
of the Plains. 

It was while Will was out on one of these ex- 
peditions that the reason which had kept me from 
going to New York became a reality. Will re- 
turned to find the house full of soldiers and the 
women of the settlement, all of them excited with 
an event far greater than that of the biggest kind 
of an Indian raid. It was a tiny little baby boy, 
and already the suggestions for names had run 
all the way from Archimedes to Zeno. Will's 
voice had a new note in it as he came to my bed- 
side, and the visitors drew away that we might 
be alone with our newest treasure. Gently Will 
touched the baby's cheek, then kissed me. 

"A boy," he said softly. "A boy! I want 
221 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

him to grow up to be a real man, Mamma. A 
boy! He'll carry on the work when his Daddy 
leaves off. He'll be the one to see the West that 
his Daddy wants to build. A boy!" 

I really believe it was the greatest moment in 
Will Cody's life. He was to meet kings, he was 
to be entertained by royalty all over the world, 
he was to become the idol of every child who could 
read the name of Buffalo Bill, but never shone 
there the light in my husband's eyes as shone that 
day in the little log cabin, as he gently kissed our 
baby's cheek and repeated over and over again: 

"A boy! Daddy's boy! Daddy's boy!" 

Soon, however, the assembled Fort McPher- 
son decided that we had been alone long enough. 
There were great things to be mastered, such as 
a selection from the hundred or more names and, 
above all, the proper arrangements for a christen- 
ing. Babies were indeed far between in the West 
of those days, and especially brand new ones. 
Already couriers were making ready for a hurry- 
ing trip to Cheyenne for a rocking crib, for the 
proper amount of baby rattles, teething rings and 
playthings. And by this time, Will had joined 
in on the general excitement of seeking a name. 

"Tell you what!" he announced with a great 
222 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

inspiration, "we'll name him after Judson. 
That'll tickle Judson to death. Yes, sir; that's 
it. Elmo Judson Cody! That's what we'll name 
him." 

"We won't do anything of the kind, Will," I 
announced with the woman's prerogative. "You 
know you always said you liked the name of Kit 
Carson." 

Will stopped and stared. 

" 'Course I did. Whoever started this Judson 
idea? Hello, Kit!" 

A big finger was wiggled in the baby's face, 
and the name was settled. However, that didn't 
mean that the christening was over. Far from 
it. Two weeks of preparation and the inhabit- 
ants of the fort again gathered in the assembly 
hall where I had met my Waterloo as a manip- 
ulator of "speakin' pieces." Gravely the soldiers 
lined up while Cody and I carried the baby before 
the Major. And thereupon the child was offi- 
cially announced to be Kit Carson Cody. And 
with the last words 

"Aw-w-w-w right! Grab yo' podners for the 
quad-rille!" 

Up on the rostrum the band began to blare. 
There were not enough women to go round, but 
223 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

a trifling deficiency like that made little differ- 
ence. Where places were vacant, soldiers rilled 
them, and the dance went on, while Will, bounc- 
ing our new baby in his arms until my heart al- 
most popped from my throat with fright, took his 
"spell" at relieving the dance caller, and the 
bandmen played until their eyes seemed to fairly 
hang out upon their cheeks. And right in the 
midst of it all 

"Tya-tay-de-tya !" 

"Boots and saddles!" Will rushed toward me 
and planted the baby in my arms. Soldiers left 
the hall by doors and windows. A second and 
the place was empty except for the women of the 
fort, while out upon the grounds the first of the 
cavalry already was beginning to clatter into po- 
sition. A few moments more, band, dance caller, 
proud father, christener and all, they were gal- 
loping away, while we poor women had to walk 
back home, our celebration gone glimmering. In- 
dians were a nuisance in those days! 

In fact, they continued to be a nuisance, for 
soon came another of their sporadic outbreaks on 
the warpath. Time after time Will was called 
out, while I waited to watch for him at the win- 
dow, only to see at last his great form leading 
224 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

all the others as he hurried home to Arta, Kit 
Carson and me. But at last came the time when 
he rode slowly, and lowered himself gingerly from 
the saddle. One quick, flashing look and I was 
out the door and hurrying to his side. There 
was blood on his face ! 

"Thought I was Injun-proof!" he laughed 
weakly. "Guess I was fooled. Didn't know In- 
juns could shoot so straight." 

Fearfully I took him into the house and 
awaited the visit of the army surgeon. How- 
ever, before medical aid could get him, Will had 
regained his strength, washed the blood from the 
scalp wound in his head, tied himself up with a 
Turkish towel that made him look like some sort 
of East Indian, and was bellowing away at a 
song, Arta on one knee and Kit Carson on the 
other. It was the one and only wound that my 
husband ever received, in spite of the fact that 
never was there an Indian fight in which he par- 
ticipated that he was not in the hottest of it, 
never a brush with the savages that he did not 
return with a new notch to his gun. Once upon 
a time I sought to keep track of the number of 
Indians that "bit the dust" as a result of my hus- 
225 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

band's accurate fire. But I lost count long be- 
fore his fighting days were over. 

But withal, it was a happy, care-free life we 
led, with just enough of the zest of danger in it 
to keep it interesting, just enough novelty to put 
an edge on the otherwise dreary life of the plains. 
And when novelty did not come naturally, Will 
made it. 

Thus it was that one day he asked me to ac- 
company him on a buffalo hunt. I left the chil- 
dren with Mrs. MacDonald, then mounting, 
started forth with my husband, only to notice that 
his rifle was missing. In its stead was a smooth, 
coiled rope, hanging over the pommel of his 
saddle. 

"Going to try something new to-day," he an- 
nounced. "That's why I thought I'd better have 
you along with a gun. I'm going to lasso a 
buffalo." 

"But, Will!" I exclaimed, "it can't be done!" 

"You mean that it hasn't been done," he cor- 
rected me, then urged his horse forward. In the 
far distance was the black smudge that presaged 
a herd of buffalo. 

Fifteen minutes of hard riding and we were 
upon them. Swiftly Will gave me his commands, 
226 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

for me to follow at an angle from which I could 
ride swiftly forward and shoot if necessary, while 
he plunged into the herd. He touched the spurs 
to his horse and shot forward. A moment more, 
riding as hard as I could, I saw that Will had cut 
one buffalo out from the great mass, and was pur- 
suing it in an angling direction to me, his lariat 
beginning to circle over his head. 

Wider and wider went the loop of the lasso. 
Then a wide, circling swing and it started forth 
through the air. 

It wavered. It hung and seemed to hesitate. 
Then a quick, downward shot and it had settled 
over the heavy, bull neck of the buffalo, while 
Will's horse spraddled its legs and prepared for 
the inevitable pull and tumble. 

A great jerk, while the rope seemed to stretch 
and strain. Then the buffalo rose in the air, 
turned a complete somersault, and was on its 
feet again. Once again Will tumbled it, and 
again, while I circled about, ready for the fatal 
shot in case the lariat should break and the mad- 
dened animal turn on its roper. But when the 
bison rose from its third tumble, its fight was 
gone. Placidly it allowed itself to be led to a 
227 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

tree and tied there, while Will sat atop his horse 
and chuckled. 

; ' 'Twasn't so hard now, was it?" he asked. 
"Shucks, I thought I was going to get some real 
excitement!" 



CHAPTER XI 

Thus passed a year. Then another big event 
happened in our lives. In fact, two of them. 
One was the birth of a third child, the second to 
see the light of the West through the windows 
of our little log cabin. Again came the usual 
excitement at the fort, the usual christening and 
the dance. This time the baby was another girl, 
and we named her Orra. 

The second great event was a series of letters 
from Mr. Judson (Ned Buntline), each more 
pressing than the other and all telling of the for- 
tune that could be made if Will would only come 
back East and be an actor. During the time of 
Will's visit to New York, he had attended the 
performance of a dramatization of one of the 
stories which Ned Buntline had written about 
him. Will had been pointed out in the box, with 
the result that the audience had called on him 
for a speech, and with the further result that Will 
had arisen, flushed, stammered something that he 
couldn't even hear himself, and seated himself 
229 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

again, worse scared than any Indian who ever 
faced his rifle. And so now that Xed Buntline 
was really suggesting that he. Will Cody, appear 
on the stage as an actor, the task appeared even 
more difficult than ever. 

But there was constant temptation in the 
thought of the money. Letter after letter came 
to our little log cabin, telling of the hundreds 
and thousands of persons who were waiting to see 
Buffalo Bill portrayed in some wild Western 
play, and portrayed by the original of the char- 
acter. Letter after letter also spoke of thousands 
of dollars as though they were mere matters that 
would simply flow into the Cody coffers with the 
arrival of Buffalo Bill in the East. And the more 
Will and I read, the more we were tempted. But 
just the same 

"Mamma. I'd be awful scared," he said to me 
more than once. "I'd get out there and just get 
glassy-eyed from looking at those lights. I 
couldn't do it. I'd just naturally be tongue- 
tied." 

"Oh, you could do it all right," I answered 
with that confidence that a wife always has in 
her husband, "but is play-acting just the right 
thing?" 

230 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Shucks, play-acting's all right and " Then 

he stopped and looked at the children, Arta grow- 
ing up to young girlhood; Kit Carson, his ideal 
and his dream, just at the romping age, and 
Orra, a tiny baby. "And" — he said at last — "if 
there was money, it would mean a lot for them, 
Mamma. It would mean that we could send 
them to fine schools and have everything for them 
that we wanted. You know, I didn't get much 
chance to go to school when I was a boy. And 
I want them to have everything I missed." 

With that, the great problem of whether or 
not Will Cod}- should become an actor was set- 
tled. It was further disposed of when Texas 
Jack roamed down to the house, heard that Will 
was seriously considering the Buntline proposi- 
tion and immediately decided that he would like 
to go on the stage himself. Will, wavering, was 
strengthened. 

"Guess I'll write to Ned and tell him we're just 
about ready to be roped and hog-tied," he an- 
nounced, more to himself than any one else. De- 
liberately he sat down and scratched for an hour, 
finally composing a letter to his satisfaction. 
Then he sent it away on its long journey, and in 

the meanwhile 

231 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

There was an election. And who, at the last 
minute, should be decided upon as a fit and 
proper person to represent the Fort McPherson 
district in the state legislature, but my husband! 
There wasn't any campaign; Will simply an- 
nounced that it was true he was running, but that 
he didn't know which way. There were not many 
voters — every one of them knew the "Jedge" as 
they sometimes jokingly called him, personally 
— and there was no competition. Will was just 
elected, and added an Honorable to his name 
without even taking the trouble to make an elec- 
tion speech. And hardly had he been elected 
when there came a letter from Buntline saying 
that everything was rosy in the East, and that a 
fortune awaited Will and Texas Jack almost the 
minute they stepped into Chicago. 

Will looked at the letter and then dug up his 
certificate of election. Carefully he weighed the 
careers, that of an actor in one hand, that of a 
Solon in the other. Finally he looked at me and 
chuckled. 

"Mamma," he said, "I know I'd be a fizzle at 
legislatin'. I don't know just how bad I'd be at 
actin'. I guess maybe I'd better find out." 

Whereupon his fate was settled as a public 
232 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

servant. As for Texas Jack, never was a per- 
son happier, for Texas Jack had absorbed the 
stage fever ; he wanted to be an actor, and, what 
was more, he was going to be an actor whether 
the audiences said he could act or not. 

What excitement there was after the decision 
was made ! What selling off of horses, of furni- 
ture, even to the kitchen table at which I had 
hammered and banged away during the long days 
in the little old cabin. What sewing and hopes 
and dreams ! Will resigned as a scout, as a Colo- 
nel, as a Justice of the Peace and as a legislator. 
We packed our grips and "telescopes," and when 
the stage pulled out one afternoon, late in 1872, 
there we were, piled in it, Will and Texas Jack, 
myself and the babies, bound for the adventures 
of the unknown. 

And if Will and Jack only had known what 
was to happen when they reached Chicago, I 
don't believe that stage would have carried us ten 
feet. Neither of them ever had seen more than 
a dozen stage plays in their lives. They had no 
idea of how to make an entrance or an exit, they 
did not know a cue from a footlight, and they 
believed that plays just happened. The fact that 
they would have to study and memorize parts 
233 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 
never entered their heads. And what was 



worse 

"All right, boys !" It was Xed Buntline, greet- 
ing them at the station in Chicago. "We'll do a 
little quick work now and have this play on by 
Monday night." 

"Monday night?" They both stared at him — 
while they weren't gawking at the crowds, the 
sizzling, steaming engines, and the great trucks 
of baggage passing by. "Ain't — ain't that rush- 
ing things a little?" 

Buntline smiled. 

"It is going a little fast, but you fellows ought 
to be accustomed to that. Come on now. We'll 
go over and fix up for the theater." 

Texas Jack scratched his head. 

"I thought that'd all be arranged for." 

"Nothing of the kind. The owner's got to see 
his stars first. So come on." 

"But — who all's going to be with us in tins 
rigout?" 

"The company?" They were in the hack now, 
bound for the amphitheater. "Oh, I haven't 
given that a thought. But there are plenty 
of actors around town. Don't worry a minute 
about them." 

234 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

But both Jack and Will did a good deal of 
worrying. Evidently the manager of the amphi- 
theater felt the same way about it. 

"When are you going to have your rehearsals?" 
he asked after Buntline had outlined a possible 
contract to him. 

"To-morrow." 

"Why to-morrow ? There's no one on the stage 
this afternoon and time's getting short. This is 
Wednesday, and if you're going to open next 
Monday, you'll have to do a lot of practicing. 
So I'd suggest a rehearsal just as soon as you 
can get out the parts and " 

"Well," Buntline smiled, "that's just it. You 
see, I haven't written the play yet!" 

Will gasped. So did Texas Jack. And so did 
the manager. More than that, he refused to make 
a contract on a play that was not written for two 
stars who never had been on the stage before. 
Buntline grew angry. He dragged a roll of bills 
from his pocket. 

"What's the rent on this theater for a week?" 
he snapped. 

"Six hundred dollars!" 

"Taken — and here's three hundred in advance. 
Give me a receipt. Thanks. Come on, boys." 
235 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Out he swept, while Jack and my husband fol- 
lowed him somewhat vaguely over to the hotel, 
and to Buntline's room. The dramatist pointed 
to two chairs. 

"Sit there!" he ordered, and they sat. Where- 
upon, dragging out pens and paper, he shouted 
for a bellboy. 

"Tell every clerk in this hotel that they're hired 
as penmen," he ordered quickly. The bellboy 
stared. 

"As what, sir?" 

"Penmen. I'm going to write a play and I'm 
going to do it quick. Haven't got time to fool 
around. These are my two stars here, Buffalo 
Bill and Texas Jack — and we're going to give a 
play in the amphitheater next Monday night. 
And now I'm going to write the play, and I'll 
want some one to copy the parts. So hurry them 
up!" 

Perhaps the bellboy stared the hardest. Per- 
haps not, for he had excellent competition in 
Texas Jack and my husband. They had shot 
Indians on the plains, they had ridden pony ex- 
press, they had lain for days and nights when 
they did not know whether the next sun would 
see them crumpled in death, and they had man- 
236 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

aged to assimilate it all. But here was some- 
thing new, something different. All the way 
from the wild, free West had they come, to be 
hustled and bustled about in a big city, there to 
learn that they were stars in something that had 
not even become permanent enough to be placed 
on paper. But Buntline was past paying any 
attention to them. Already his pen was scratch- 
ing over the paper, while sheet after sheet piled 
up on the other side of the table. Now and then 
he would leap to his feet and rant up and down 
the room, shouting strange words and sentences 
at the top of his voice, then bobbing into his chair 
again and grasping that pen, scribble harder than 
ever. One by one the clerks began to make their 
appearance, only to have reams of paper jabbed 
into their hands, and then be shunted into the 
next room with orders to copy as they never had 
copied before. Somewhat wildly my husband 
looked at Texas Jack, squirming about in his 
chair. 

"Partner," he began, "I reckon we " 

"Shut up!" It was an order from the scrib- 
bling Buntline. Will slumped in his chair. 

"I'm shut," he announced weakly. 

The scribbling went on. At the end of four 
237 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

hours Buntline leaped to his feet and waved a 
handful of paper at the two flustered ones from 
the plains. 

"Hurrah!'' he shouted. '"Hurrah for "The 
Scouts of the Plains.' " 

Texas Jack looked around hurriedly. 

"TYho're they?" 

''The Scouts of the Plains'? They're you. 
You're 'The Scouts of the Plains.' That's the 
name of the play. Now, all you've got to do is 
to get your parts letter perfect." 

"Get w-h-a-tr 

"Your parts — the lines that you're going to 
speak. That stuff I've been writing.'* 

"All that?" Cody blinked. Texas Jack sank 
lower in his chair. "You mean we've got to learn 
what you've been scribbling there, so we can get 
up on the stage and spout it ofTT' 

"Of course." 

Cody reached for his hat and twisted it in his 
hands. 

"Jack," he said at last. "I guess we're on the 
wrong trail. Maybe — maybe we're better at 
hunting Injuns!" 

"But. boys " 

"I reckon I don't want to be an actor, after 
23$ 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Texas Jack had risen, his long arms sn 
ing at his sides. But Buntline was in front of 
them, pleading the fact that he already had paid 
out three hundred dollars, that they had made the 
trip from F;r: McPherson just for this, that Will 
had sold off everything he possessed and that it 
wouldn't be fair, either to him or to themselves. 
to turn back now. Will scratched his head, 
u WdU" he announced at last. "I never went 

friend. But this sure is pizen!" 
'"It sure is." agreed Texas Jack. "But give us 
r whatever you call "em. We'll do 
our best. If I'd known all this. I'd never come 
on. honest I wouldn't I thought all there was 
to play a c tin g was I just get up there and 
whatever popped into your head. And we've got 
rn all this 
He it his pari C ly was doing the 

same. Then they looked at each other. 

"How long you calculate it'll take to learn it?" 
Jack asked ;: Will, My husband sighed mourn- 
fully. 

"About sb monti 
Same here. But " 



"Boys," Buntline was serious now. "either 
you've got to have both those parts committed to 
•239 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

memory to-morrow morning or — well, we all lose. 
And just remember one thing, your reputation's 
at stake." 

"Yeh," Texas Jack still was staring at that 
mass of paper in his hand, "and I'd rather 
be tied at the stake right now. But if I say I'll 
do a thing, I'll do 'er. Lock us up somewhere 
and we'll do our derndest!" 

I know there were nights in Will Cody's life 
that were horrible nightmares from a standpoint 
of danger and privation. But I am just as sure 
that there never was such a night as the one when 
he tried to learn the first elements of being an 
actor. No one ever will know just what did 
happen in that room ; from the outside it sounded 
like the mutterings of a den of wild animals. 
Now and then Will's voice would sound high and 
strident, then low and bellowing, with Texas 
Jack's chiming in with a rumbling base. Every 
few minutes bellboys would rush up the hall with 
ice clinking in the pitchers, hand the refresh- 
ments through the door, then hurry away again, 
with a sort of dazed, non-understanding expres- 
sion on their faces. And all the while, the rum- 
bling of prairie thunder, the verbal flashes of 
lightning and crashing of mountainous speech 
240 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

torrents would continue, while guests in the ad- 
joining rooms made uncomplimentary remarks, 
and Ned Buntline, entering the "den" now and 
then would stand a few moments to listen, then 
walk quietly away, somewhat like a man in a 
dream. 

But nights must pass and that one faded away 
at last, to find Texas Jack and my husband on 
the dark stage of the theater, well-worn and wan 
and waiting for the next step in the new form of 
torture that had swooped upon them. The re- 
hearsal was called, and Buntline, who already 
had engaged his company, hired a director, looked 
after the printing and the distributing of dodgers, 
introduced the two stars to the rest of the com- 
pany. One after another, and then 

"And this is Mile. Morlacchi," he said as he 
introduced Texas Jack to a dark-eyed, dark- 
haired little woman. "She is to dance just be- 
fore the show, for a curtain raiser." 

Texas Jack put out his hand in a hesitating, 
wavering way. His usually heavy, bass voice, 
cracked and broke. There were more difficulties 
than ever now, for Jack had fallen in love, at 
sight ! 

Far in the rear of the stage, there was a third 
241 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

person who had watched the introduction and the 
little flash of mutual admiration which had passed 
between the two. Years before he had met Will 
on the Missouri, and had come to admire him, 
with the result that he had requested and been 
given the management of the advertising part of 
the show, Major John M. Burke. That morn- 
ing Major Burke had met Morlacchi also — and 
he, too, had felt the flush of love. 

And with this combination, the first rehearsal 
began. It was a wonderful thing, from the stand- 
point of a prairie stampede or a cattle round-up. 
But as a theatrical rehearsal, it was hardly a 
success. Jack and Will had learned their parts 
without regard to cues, entrances or anything else 
that might interefere with free speech. The mo- 
ment the director would call on one of them, he 
would begin speaking the whole of his part, line 
after line, with never a pause, never a stop for 
breath, booming at the top of his lungs, turning 
his back on the supposed audience, putting his 
hands in his pockets, and doing everything else 
in the calendar that no actor is supposed to do. 
Patiently the director led them around the stage, 
taught them the difference between the pro- 
scenium arch and the woodwings, pushed them 
242 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

off the stage and on the stage, forward and back- 
ward — only a minute later to see it all done wrong 
again. At last, almost desperate at having two 
to handle, he turned Texas Jack over to Mile. 
Morlacchi, while he looked after my husband. 
And never did a pupil work harder than Texas 
Jack from that moment! 

All day they rehearsed, and were still studying 
their lines when the house began to fill that night. 
The mere mention of the fact that Buffalo Bill 
was to appear in a play had been enough. The 
house was crowded. Every well-known man with 
whom Will ever had hunted was there, while the 
galleries, balcony and parquet were crowded with 
those who had read the stories of Buffalo Bill, 
as written by Ned Buntline. And, of course, 
Texas Jack and Will had to look out through 
the peephole. They turned to each other in dis- 
may. 

"I'm plumb scared to death!" Jack confessed. 

"So'm I " Then, desperately. "Jack— 

what do I say when I first come on the stage?" 

Jack's jaw fell. 

"Gosh," he exclaimed, "what do I say?" 

They had forgotten their parts, forgotten them 
as completely as though they never had studied 
243 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

them. Wildly they rushed to the dressing-rooms 
and began to cram again. The orchestra played 
the overture. The curtain went up, and then, 
through the aisles and behind the wings went a 
stagehand, hurrying, excited 

"Where's Buffalo Bill?" he called, "where's 
Buffalo Bill?" 

They dragged Will out of the dressing-room, 
where, part in hand, he was struggling to reas- 
semble those missing lines. Out on the stage 
they shoved him, where Buntline, playing the 
part of Gale Durg, who seemed to be some sort 
of a vague temperance character, obsessed with 
a mania for delivering lectures on the curse of 
drink, awaited him. 

Once on the stage, Will just stood there, 
gawking. His lines had vanished again, his 
hands suddenly had assumed the imagined pro- 
portions of hams, his feet had gained a weight 
which would surely have tripped him if he had 
taken another step. Gale Durg, the temperance 
advocate, moved close, and whispered the cue 
line. It did no good. Will simply stood there, 
moving his lips in an aimless fashion, a dry 
gurgling sound coming from somewhere back in 
his throat. But that was all. Gale Durg, the 
244 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

destroyer of the Demon Rum, decided on des- 
perate remedies. 

"Hello, CodyP' he shouted. "Where have you 
been?" 

Will blinked. Now he realized that he was on 
the stage and supposed to be saying something. 
Wildly he glanced about — and happened to see 
in one of the boxes a Mr. Milligan, popular in 
Chicago, who had recently been on a hunt with 
him. 

"I've — I've been out on a hunt with Milligan," 
he announced. 

"Ah?" Gale Durg, resorting to that method 
of "stalling" that has helped many an actor over 
a rough road, followed the lead. "Tell us 
about it." 

Whereupon Will "told." On he rambled, with 
any wild story that came to his brain, on and on 
and on, while the prompter groaned in the wings 
and while the plot of the play vanished entirely. 
Finally some one back stage thought of Texas 
Jack and shoved him out into the glare of light. 
Then, one by one the other players trooped on. 
and then 

The Indians! Chicago Indians from Clark 
Street and Dearborn and Madison, Indians who 
245 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

never had seen the land beyond the borders of 
Illinois, Indians painted and devilish and ready 
to be killed. It was the lifesaver. Out came 
Will's gun. Wildly he banged away about the 
stage, then, leaping here and there, knocked 
down Indians until there were no more to knock. 
He was back home now, with Texas Jack at his 
side, pulling the trigger of his six-shooter until 
the stage was filled with smoke, and until the 
hammers only clicked on exploded cartridges. 
They yelled. They shouted. They roared and 
banged away at the hapless Illinois tribe, at last 
remembering vaguely that there was a heroine 
scattered somewhere around the stage, and that 
they must save her. Whereupon they leaped for- 
ward, hurdled the bodies of the slain savages, 
grabbed the heroine around the waist and 
dragged her off stage, while the curtain came 
down and the house roared its approval at the 
bloodthirstiest Indian fight in which either Will 
Cody or Texas Jack ever participated. 

The act was over. The next was devoted al- 
most to Gale Durg, while he died, making a 
speech on temperance almost as long as a political 
platform as he did so. By this time both Will 
and Jack had gained an opportunity to make 
246 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

another wild scramble for those parts, and the 
Indians had been rejuvenated sufficiently to al- 
low them to be killed again. Therefore when the 
next act came, there was at least a semblance of 
the original lines of the play, to say nothing of 
another Indian massacre and the consequent res- 
cue of the heroine, who had again happened along 
at just the wrong — or right — moment. 

Finally, after two hours of torture for actors, 
Indians, and those two stars, the curtain came 
down for the last time. But the audience refused 
to leave. Louder and louder it applauded, until 
at last, white and excited, Will and Jack had to 
obey a curtain call. Their first appearance had 
been a wonderful success, perhaps all the more 
wonderful because of the fact that the play had 
been almost forgotten and those two plainsmen 
had gotten out there on the stage and given an 
exhibition of stage-fright that no actor possibly 
could simulate. The audience had come to see 
Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack — and they had been 
entertained by the sight of two men who feared 
nothing, but who, at that moment, would have 
been afraid of their own shadow. 

As for the newspapers, their criticisms were 
enough to make any play. If there is too much 
247 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

praise, or if there is not enough, it may be damn- 
ing. But when a newspaper blooms forth in 
good-natured humor, it provokes curiosity ! And 
certainly — but here is an example : 

There is a well-founded rumor that Ned Buntline, who 
played the part of Gale Durg in last night's performance, 
wrote the play in which Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack ap- 
peared, taking only four hours to complete the task. The 
question naturally arises: what was he doing all that 
time? As Gale Durg, he made some excellent speeches 
on temperance and was killed in the second act, it being 
very much regretted that he did not arrange his demise 
so that it could have occurred sooner. Buffalo Bill and 
Texas Jack are wonderful Indian killers. As an artistic 
success, 'The Scouts of the Plains' can hardly be called 
a season's event, but for downright fun, Injun killing, red 
fire and rough and tumble, it is a wonder." 

All of which was thoroughly agreed with by 
Will and Texas Jack. In fact, so much did Will 
coincide in the opinion that a week later, in St. 
Louis 

With Arta on my lap, I sat in the audience, 
watching the performance, and waiting for Will 
to appear. At last, three or four Indians pranced 
across the stage, turned, waved their tomahawks, 
yelled something and then fell dead, accompanied 
by the rattle-te-bang of a six-shooter. Out 
rushed Will, assured himself that all three of the 
248 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Indians were thoroughly dead, turned just in time 
to kill a couple more who had roamed on to the 
stage by accident, and then faced the audience. 

I was sitting in about the third row, and Will 
saw me. He came forward, leaned over the gas 
footlights and waved his arms. 

"Oh, Mamma!" he shouted, "I'm a bad actor!" 

The house roared. Will threw me a kiss and 
then leaned forward again, while the house 
stilled. 

"Honest, Mamma," he shouted, "does this look 
as awful out there as it feels up here?" 

And again the house chuckled and applauded. 
Some one called out the fact that I was Mrs. 
Buffalo Bill. High up in the gallery came a 
strident voice : 

"Get up there on the stage ! Let's take a look 
at you." 

"Yeh!" It was Will's voice, chiming in. 
"Come on up, Mamma." 

"Oh, Will !" I was blushing to the roots of my 
hair. "Stop!" 

"Stop nothing. You can't be any worse scared 
than I am. Come on up." 

Some one placed a chair in the orchestra pit. 
Hands reached out. I felt myself raised from 
249 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

my seat and boosted on to the stage, Arta after 
me. There in the glare of the footlights, my 
husband, rumbling with laughter beside me, I felt 
that dryness, that horrible speechlessness that I 
knew Will had experienced that first night in 
Chicago — and for once it wasn't funny. Will 
pinched me on the arm. 

"Now you can understand how hard your poor 
old husband has to work to make a living!" he 
shouted and the audience applauded again. 

I don't remember how long I had to stand 
there; it's all hazy and mist-like. After a long 
while, I remember sitting down front once again, 
while Will banged away at the Indians up on the 
stage. And after that, when I went to see my 
husband in his new role as an actor, I chose a seat 
in the farthest and darkest part of the house. 
But it did little good. For invariably Will would 
seek me out, and invariably he would call: 

"Hello, Mamma. Oh, but I'm a bad actor!" 



CHAPTER XII 

The money was flowing in. Bad as the "stars" 
knew their play to be, it was what the public 
wanted, and that was all that counted. Week 
after week they played to houses that were 
packed to the roofs, while often the receipts 
would run close to $20,000 for the seven days. 
It was more money than any of us ever had 
dreamed of before. Unheard extravagances be- 
came ours. And Will, dear, generous soul that 
he was, believed that an inexhaustible supply of 
wealth had become his forever. One night — I 
believe it was in St. Louis — we entered a hotel, 
only to find that the rooms we occupied were on 
a noisy side of the house. Will complained. The 
manager bowed suavely. 

"But you are liable to encounter noise any- 
where in a hotel," came his counter argument. 
"For instance, I might move you to another part 
of the hotel and right in the next room would 
be some one who talked loudly or otherwise dis- 
turbed you. The only way you could have abso- 
251 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

lute peace would be to rent the whole floor and, 
of course, you don't want to do that " 

"Don't I?" Will reached for the roll of bills 
in his pocket. "How much is it?" 

The manager figured. Then he smiled. 

"Two hundred dollars would be a pretty stiff 
price to pay for peace and quiet." 

"Paid!" Will had peeled the bills from his 
roll. "Now, let's see how quick you can make 
things comfortable for us. I've got a wife and 
babies and we're all tired!" 

Never did any one ever have such service. But 
it cost money. In fact, so much money that when 
the season was over, Will looked somewhat rue- 
fully at his bank account. Instead of the hundred 
thousand dollars or so he had dreamed of pos- 
sessing, the balance showed something less than 
$6,000. And Texas Jack's bankbook had suf- 
fered far more — for Texas Jack was in love. 

Long ago poor Major Burke had given up all 
hope of ever winning the little dancer, and great 
big man that he was, he had confessed it. To 
me he had told his story, and to me he had un- 
folded his purpose in life. 

"Mrs. Cody," he had said one night as we sat 
back stage watching the 'performance' from the 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

wings, "I have met a god and a goddess in my 
life. The god was Bill Cody. I came on him 
just at sunset one night, out on the Missouri, 
and the reflection of the light from the river was 
shining up straight into his face and lighting it 
up like some kind of an aura. He was on horse- 
back, and I thought then that he was the hand- 
somest, straightest, finest man that I ever had 
seen in my life. I still think so." 

He was silent a moment, while some rampage 
of Indian killing happened out on the stage. 
Then he leaned closer. 

"The goddess was Mile. Morlacchi. But I 
can't have her, Mrs. Cody. I wouldn't be the 
man that I want to be if I tried. Jack's a better 
man — he's fought the West, and he's had far 
more hardships than I've ever seen and — and — he 
deserves his reward. I'll never love any other 
woman — but there's one thing I can do, I can 
turn all my affection from the goddess to the god, 
and so help me, I'll never fail from worshipping 
him!" 

Many a year followed that, many a year of 

wandering, while Will went from country to 

country, from nation to nation, from state to 

state. There were fat times and there were lean, 

253 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

there were times when the storms gathered, and 
there were times when the sun shone; but 
always in cloud or in sunshine, there was ever a 
shadow just behind him, following him with a 
wistful love that few men can ever display, Major 
John M. Burke. And when the time came that 
Will and I said good-by forever, another man 
loosed his hold on the world. Throughout every 
newspaper office in the country, where John 
Burke had sat by the hour, never mentioning a 
word about himself, but telling always of the 
prowess of his "god," there flashed the news that 
Major John M. Burke, the former representative 
of William Frederick Cody, had become danger- 
ously ill. And six weeks later the faithful old 
hands were folded, the lips that had spoken 
hardly anything but the praises of Buffalo Bill 
for a half a century, were still. Major Burke had 
died when Cody died, only his body lingered on 
for those six weeks, at last to loose its hold on 
the loving, faithful old spirit it bound, and allow 
it to follow its master over the Great Divide. 

But that is a matter of other years. We still 

were in the days of youth and of life. The West 

was calling to all of us, and back we bundled at 

the end of the season, once more to take up our 

254 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

home at the fort, while Jack and Will scouted 
through the summer months, and made their 
plans for the coming season. 

The stage had caught them now. This time 
they would not be such profligates. This time 
they would save — and more, they would be pro- 
ducers themselves. Hence the reason that they 
must work this summer and not make inroads 
upon that bank balance. 

Already the play was being written, and a new 
star was to be added, Wild Bill Hickok. The 
summer passed and back we. went to the East, 
while Texas Jack and Will began their play, 
and awaited Wild Bill. At last he came, to ar- 
rive one night while Will was on the stage, re- 
splendent in the circle of the "limelight." Wild 
Bill, stumbling about in the darkness of the 
stage, looked out and gasped as he saw Cody. 

"For the sake of Jehosophat!" he exclaimed, 
"what's that Bill Cody's got on him out there?" 

"The clothes, you mean?" I asked. I was sit- 
ting in one of the entrances, Kit Carson on my 
lap. Long ago Kit had become a regular theater- 
goer ; it was habit to take him to watch his father 
now. Wild Bill shook his head and waved his 
arms. 

255 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"No," he was growing more excited every min- 
ute, "that white stuff that's floating all around 
him." 

I laughed. 

"Why, Mr. Hickok," I explained, "that's 
limelight." 

Wild Bill turned and grasped a stage-hand 
by the arm. Then he dragged a gold-piece from 
his pocket. 

"Boy," he ordered, "run just as fast as your 
legs will carry you and get me five dollars' worth 
of that stuff. I want it smeared all over me!" 

In fact, Bill needed a good many things 
smeared over him, for, while he might have been 
wonderful with a revolver, he was hardly meant 
for an actor. Like Jack and Will he had stage- 
fright on his first performance, and, more than 
that, he never got over it. 

"Ain't this foolish?" he exclaimed one night, 
after he had stuttered and stammered through 
his lines. "Ain't it now? What's the use of get- 
ting out there and making a show of yourself? 
I ain't going to do it !" 

And there the theatrical career of William 
Hickok ended. He went away, back to his West, 
to his card games — and to his death. But the 
256 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

theatrical enterprises of Cody and Omohundro — 
that was Texas Jack's real name — went flourish- 
ing on. 

Weird things, were those plays. After the first 
season Will had purchased a house in Rochester, 
New York, where the children and myself might 
live until he should come home from the road. 
Now and then we would join him for a while, then 
return to the big, quiet house and its restfulness, 
where I might dream of the days of the West — 
and see in a vision the time when we would return 
there. For Will never looked upon his stage ex- 
perience as anything but transitory. 

Nevertheless, the public demanded him, and the 
public got him, in such wondrous pieces of dra- 
matic art as "Life on the Border," "Buffalo Bill 
at Bay," "From Noose to Neck," "Buffalo Bill's 
Pledge," and other marvels of stagecraft. One 
of them I remember particularly, and the faded 
old manuscript lies before me as I write, "The 
Red Right Hand." 

Just what the Red Right Hand had to do with 
the play never was fully determined. However, 
a small detail like that made very little difference 
in those days. The thing that counted was ac- 
tion, and when the lines became dull, it was al- 
257 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ways possible for some one to pull out a revolver 
and start shooting. Even the manuscript pro- 
vided for that. Just for instance, a few lines 
from its quietest act : 

Hurry music. Shot is heard. (I'm quoting now from 
the manuscript.) Pearl enters, pursued by several Indians. 
She runs up on rock. Enter Indians, yelling. She fires 
one shot and an Indian falls. The balance of them yell 
and attempt to ascend the rock. She clubs them back with 
butt of rifle. 

Pearl (on rovk). . . . Back! Back! You red fiends! 

Enter Bill, hurriedly fires a few shots, and three or four 
Indians fall. 

Perhaps you'll notice how careless they were 
with Indians in those days. It didn't make much 
difference how many shots were fired; the num- 
ber of Indians that toppled over was always more 
than the number of bullets, which chased them to 
their death. But to that manuscript: 

. . . Red Hand enters hastily, follows off the retiring 
Indians and shoots once or twice and kills several Indians. 
Returns, sees Bill and raises rifle as if to shoot. 

Bill— Hold on, Pard! 

Red Hand— (Surprise d). What? Bill Cody? 

Bill— Red Hand? You here? 

Red Hand — Yes, Bill, and I'm glad to meet you. I heard 
you were to join the campaign, hut had no idea that you 
had yet arrived. But it is always like you, Bill — sure 
to be near when danger threatens ! 
258 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Can't you hear them, these two great-lunged 
men of the plains, roaring this at each other? 
Can't you imagine the gestures, the strutting, the 
pursing of lips as these scouts of the silent places, 
accustomed to the long, stealthy searches, the 
hours of waiting, the days of trailing, bellowed 
this travesty, while out over the footlights, a ten- 
derfoot audience waited, gaping on every word, 
and assured itself that here was the true spirit of 
the West, the real manner in which the paleface 
and the Indian fought the great fight? But one 
cannot transport the prairie to the boarded stage, 
and still keep within the mileage limits. And, 
besides, those audiences wanted their kind of 
thrills. They got them. Back to that manuscript: 

Bill — (Takes his hand). I always try to be, Red Hand, 
you bet! (Looks up and sees Pearl, who has been listen- 
ing.) But say, look here, who is yon lovely creature that 
we have just rescued from those red fiends? 

Red Hand — By heavens ! Bill, but she is beautiful. Yet 
I know not who she is. 

Many a time I heard Texas Jack call a dance. 
Many a time I saw him swing off his horse, tired 
and dusty from miles in the saddle, worn from 
days and nights without sleep, when perhaps the 
lives of hundreds depended on his nerve, his skill 
with the rifle, his knowledge of the prairie. But 
259 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

I don't believe I ever heard him say, at any of 
those times: 'Yet I know not who she is.' Mar- 
vels indeed were those old-time "drameys," when 
the East, the West and the imagination of the 
Bowery dramatist, all met in the same sentence. 
If I may return to the manuscript 

Bill — {To Pearl). Fear not, fair girl. You are now 
safe with one who is ever ready to aid a friend, or risk 
his life in defense of a woman. 

Pearl — {Comes down). I knew not that the paleface 
hunters dare come into this unknown land of the Indian. 

Red Hand — Will you not let me see you to your cabin? 

Hermit {Suddenly appears on rock, shoots, and Red 
Hand falls. Rushes down with rifle in hand, sees Red 
Hand trying to gain his feet. Speaks) : Ha ! My rifle 
failed me, but this will not ! {Draws large knife. Rushes 
toward Red Hand, and is just in the act of stabbing him 
when Bill rushes on him and, with knife in hand, con- 
fronts Hermit. Chord. Picture.) 

Bill— Hello, Santa Claus ! 

Hermit — {Staggering back). Buffalo Bill! Ha! Ha! 
Ha! Well met! I have sworn to kill you, and all your 
accursed race. Your hour has come! For this is your 
last ! 

Bill — Calmly). You don't say so? 

Hermit — By heaven I will keep my vow ! 

Music. Starts for Bill, who steps over Red Hand and 
faces him. They stare at each other and Hermit rushes 
on Bill. They cross knives. Pearl leaps into scene and 
grasps the wrist of Hermit. 

Pearl— Father ! Father! This must not be! 
{Chord in 'G'. Picture) 
260 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

That is sufficient. Perhaps now you can un- 
derstand the plight of those two men of the West 
when first they gazed upon a "Western" play 
there in the hotel in Chicago, five days before 
their first performance. Perhaps, too, you can 
understand why, in the agonized days of learning 
the new parts as the different plays came along, 
Will and Jack would stare at each other weakly, 
then allow the manuscripts to slip aimlessly to 
the floor, as one or the other exclaimed: 

"Gosh! We never talked like this!" 

But there was the money, and there was that 
house in Rochester, and the big school that meant 
so much to Will — because it meant so much also 
to the three children that he loved. And just 
how much he loved them ! How much indeed 

It was late one night, in April, 1876. I had 
been sitting for hours, months it seemed, beside 
the crib of our little boy, tossing there in the 
parched agony of scarlet fever. Across the room 
lay Arta, crying and pettish from the same ill- 
ness, and tucked away was Orra, also a victim. 
The world had grown black and the darkness was 
descending all about me. Again and again I 
leaned forward, forcing back the sobs that I could 
scarcely restrain, trying to soothe the fevered 
261 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

little being, whispering over and over again: 

"I've telegraphed, Honey. Daddy will be 
here to-morrow morning. He'll be here at nine 
o'clock, Honey. Go to sleep now; Daddy's com- 
ing, Daddy '11 be here in the morning." 

And in answer the little lips would murmur: 

"Ten o'clock— ten o'clock." 

"Nine o'clock, Honey. He'll be here at nine 
o'clock." 

And again the answer would come : 

"Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock!" 

I knew what was happening far away, in Bos- 
ton, where Buffalo Bill was showing that week, 
knew as well as though I were there, knew that 
out on the stage a man, his faced lined and old, 
was telling an audience that he could not go on 
with this mockery any longer, that tragedy had 
come to him and that he must obey its call. I 
knew from the time that I had sent the telegram 
calling him home that he would be able to catch 
the train which reached Rochester shortly before 
nine o'clock in the morning, and that by the time 
the clock struck, he would be in the house and 
beside his boy — the boy he had dreamed for, 
hoped for, lived and loved for. And if Kit could 
only live until then — it was my prayer ! I knew 
262 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

that death was coming; I could tell it from the 
fear that clutched at my heart, the fear that tore 
its ragged claws into my very vitals. A mother 
knows — a mother can see in the eyes of the child 
she loves when the light is dimming; her own 
heart echoes the failing beats of the heart that is 
hers also. And if Kit could only live until morn- 
ing — until nine o'clock ! But faintly the baby lips 
answered : 

"Ten o'clock — ten o'clock!" 

The night dragged along on its weary path, 
while I sat there, counting the ticks of the old 
clock, sounding heavy and sonorous in the quiet 
room. Dawn came and the baby slept. The sun 
rose and he awakened, while I leaned over him, 
whispering: 

"It'll not be long now, Honey. Daddy's on 
the way. He'll be here at nine o'clock." 

And once again the white lips that once had 
been so red and round and full, the drawn lips 
that once had laughed so prettily, parted with: 

"Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock." 

Eight o'clock. Eighty-thirty. I waited for 

the whistle of the train, my heart pounding until 

it seemed that its every throb was a triphammer 

beating on my brain. The old, heavily ticking 

263 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

clock struck nine. The whistle had not sounded. 

Again the minutes dragged on. Slower and 
slower and slower — a whistle, far away — a long, 
anxious wait and then the sound of hurried steps, 
the rushing form of a man who came into the 
room, his face white and drawn, his arms ex- 
tended. As he knelt by the side of the baby we 
loved, the old clock on the wall struck ten ! And 
almost, with the last stroke, there faded the life 
from the pretty, baby eyes, the little fingers 
twitched ever so slightly; there was a sigh, brief, 
soft — and the choking sob of a great, strong man. 
Kit, our Kit, the baby for whom Will and I had 
dreamed — was dead. 

We buried him where he wanted to lie, up in 
the big cemetery at the end of the street, where 
the trees flung wide their shade and where he had 
seen the flowers and the smooth mounds of green 
and where — with that childlike prognostication 
that all too often comes true, he had said he 
would like to be if he died. We buried him and 
said good-by to him, and then turned back to the 
big home, a tall, silent man, his lips pressed tight, 
his eyes narrowed and determined, and his great, 
strong arm about the wife who was not as strong 
264 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

as he, who grieved with all her heart, yet was 
blessed with the surcease of tears. 

Silently he walked about the house for a day 
or so, stopping to look at the bed where Kit had 
lain and died, then trying to smile for the sake 
of the baby and of the girl who lay fevered and 
ill. Telegrams came to him. He crushed them 
unread. Then 

"Mamma — ," his voice had lost the old 
bouyant ring — "I can't go back to that — that 
mockery. It's always been a joke to me — those 
plays. And I can't joke now. I can't go on the 
stage and act — remembering — remembering — up 
there." He pointed hurriedly toward the ceme- 
tery. I put my arms about him. 

"Will," I said, "it's spring. They're starting 
the expeditions now, back — out home. It's your 
land out there. I'll stay here and wait, and hope. 
We've got enough money; we can live. I want 
you to go back out West again and ride and fight 
and — well, I know you won't forget." 

"No," he answered, "I won't forget." 

A day later, he went to rejoin the show again, 
but only to close its season and hurry home again. 
Within a week or so, we said good-by at the sta- 
tion once more. Will was going back to the 
265 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

West, and I hoped that the West would give him 
again that old light in his eyes, that the fresh, 
clear air, the brilliant ruddiness of the sunshine 
and the glare of the plains would take that pallor 
from his cheeks, the excitement of the chase once 
again return the great, happy booming that once 
had sounded in his voice. My trust in the West 
was fulfilled. 

* It was some time before I received a letter. 
Then I learned that Will was soon to take to the 
trail again, this time as the chief of scouts for 
General Sheridan. A letter which arrived shortly 
afterward told me, however, that he soon was to 
rejoin his old command, the Fifth Cavalry, under 
General Carr, and that a campaign was to start 
against the hostile Sioux. Again, a third letter, 
told of a change in the command, this time the 
regiment being under General Wesley Merritt. 
Then silence. 

A month passed while I nursed Arta and Orra 
back to health and strength. A second month 
and then the news flashed upon the world that 
Custer had been massacred, and that every Sioux 
in the Big Horn country had gone upon the war- 
path. Long before, Will had told me not to 
worry, and never to lose faith in his powers to 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

defend himself. But now I was fighting against 
a new enemy — was Will again the old Will? Or 
had he allowed grief to weigh upon him until it 
had dulled his quickness of perception, his keen- 
ness of eye, his rapidity of touch upon the 
trigger? 

Story after story came from the West of the 
horrors of that massacre, how the Indians had 
surged upon Custer and his command, surround- 
ing him, annihilating the soldiery, fighting to the 
last minute, the last gasp of breath. News did 
not travel swiftly in those times; there was no 
casualty list forthcoming in a few days or weeks, 
such as one might expect now should a 
catastrophe of the same nature happen in this 
country. All that I knew was that Will was out 
in the West, that he was scouting for the gallant 
Fifth Cavalry, and that some time, some place, 
the Indians and that regiment would meet for 
revenge. And when they met would their fate be 
that of Custer? 

The news came of another battle, and I gasped 
as I read the command. It was the Fifth Cavalry, 
hurrying to cut off the Dog Soldiers, as a num- 
ber of renegade Sioux and Cheyenne were called. 
They had stopped the advance of eight hundred 
267 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Indians just as they were seeking to turn into the 
heart of the Big Horn country and there join 
the hostile bands of Sitting Bull. I knew that 
Will had been in that battle, but that was all. 
Any knowledge of whether he was alive or dead 
— that was another matter. I found myself tor- 
mented with a new fear. It was I who had sent 
him into the West, it was I who had suggested 
that out there he might heal over the wounds 
which the death of Kit Carson had caused. It 
was I who 

There was a knock on the door, and I answered 
it, my heart pounding strangely. But it was only 
the expressman, with a small, square box. I 
looked at the label — all that it told me was that 
one of its shipping points had been Fort Mc- 
Pherson and that the consignor was William 
Frederick Cody. But that was enough. It told 
me also that Will was still alive, and apparently 
safe. For the shipping date was later than that 
of the Battle of the Warbonnet — such had been 
named the clash between the Dog Soldiers and 
the Fifth Cavalry — and that meant Will's safety, 
from that battle at least. 

Hurriedly I sought the hatchet and pried open 
the lid of the box. A terrific odor caught my 
268 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

nostrils. I reeled slightly — then reached for the 
contents. Then I fainted. For I had brought 
from that box the raw, red scalp of an Indian 1 

Some way I managed to put the thing away 
from me when I recovered consciousness. Some 
way I managed to blind myself to the sight of it. 
But I couldn't wipe out the memory. And weeks 
later, when Will Cody rushed in the door, his 
voice thundering with at least a semblance of the 
olden days, I forgot myself long enough to kiss 
him and hug him again and again — then remem- 
bered that I was terribly angry. 

"Will Cody !" I said. "What on earth did you 
send me that old scalp for ! Aren't you ashamed 
of yourself? It nearly scared me to death!" 

"No!" In his eyes was blank astonishment. 
"Why— why I though you'd like that." 

"Like it? Why, Will, I fainted!" 

"Honest?" The knowledge that I was in the 
East now, gradually was beginning to break in 
on him. "Gosh, I never thought of that. I was 
so excited that I just said to myself that I'd 
send his scalp to Mamma and let her know just 
how fine a time I was having out there, because it 
was about the best fight I ever had and I knew 

that when you got my letter, you'd " 

269 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"But I didn't get any letter." 

"Not about Yellowhand?" 

"Who's Yellowhand?" 

"Gosh!" Will leaned against the door, and 
laughed. "What's the use of getting a reputa- 
tion? Remember how I used to make fun of that 
play-acting? Well, by golly, it turned out. I've 
had a duel!" 

"With an Indian?" 

"With an Injun — and I sent you his scalp, just 
for a keepsake, as it were. You see, General 
Merritt got an idea that maybe he might be able 
to cut off those Dog Soldiers. We marched all 
day and most of the night, and we prepared an 
ambush along Warbonnet Creek, just before the 
Dogs got there. Well, everything was fine. The 
Injuns showed up on the hill and we were just 
waiting to start popping away at 'em, when a 
wagon train showed up in the distance and some 
of the Injuns started after it. Well, then there 
wasn't much more chance to keep ourselves hid 
if we were going to save those wagons, so I took 
twelve or fifteen scouts out and drove off the 
Injuns that had started after the train. And 
about this time, out rode an old Codger all deco- 
rated up and everything and began pounding his 
270 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

chest and riding around and cutting up fit to kill. 
I turned to Little Bat, our interpreter, and asked 
him what the Old Fogy was trying to do. 
Mamma, you ought to have seen him. He was 
riding up and down in front of the Injuns that 
were lined up on the hill, pounding himself on the 
chest and ranting around there like a crazy man. 
Little Bat listened to him a minute and then he 
told me that this was Yellowhand who thought 
himself some heap big chief. 

" 'What's he want?' I says. 'Looks like he's 
got a pain or something.' 

" 'He says that before this battle starts he 
wants to fight Pahaska a duel.' 

"Well, Mamma" — Will turned to me, for all 
the world like a small boy describing the catching 
of his big fish — "I couldn't take that, could I ? I 
couldn't stand to have this old Pelican riding 
around out there, making fun of me. So I just 
let out a yell and jabbed spurs into my horse. 
Out we shot from the lines and the minute I 
started after him, he started after me." 

"And you shot him!" I was standing wide-eyed, 
Orra in my arms, Arta clinging excitedly to my 
skirts. Will waved his arms enthusiastically. 

"That's just what I didn't do. Just when I 
271 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

started to pull that blamed old trigger, down went 
my horse's foot in a gopher hole. But the shot 
got his horse anyway. And when I got through 
rolling around on the ground, and wondering 
why that old Codger didn't put a bullet through 
me, I looked up and saw him just coming out of a 
cloud of dust. That bullet had hit something 
anyway, and he didn't have any more horse than 
a rabbit. By gosh, Mamma, that was some 
fight!" 

"And then what, Daddy?" Arta had gone to 
him and was tugging excitedly at his trouser-leg. 
He laughed, and raising her in his arms, sat her 
on his shoulder. 

"And then, what. Honey?" he asked. "Well, 
then your Daddy started running at old Yellow- 
hand and old Yellowhand started running at your 
Daddy. The fall had knocked the guns out of 
the hands of both of us and I knew it was going 
to be mighty touchy picking for your Daddy if he 
ever slung his tomahawk at me. So I just kept 
dodging around as I went at him, so that he'd 
have a hard time hitting me, and pretty soon we 
were right at each other. Then " 

"Yes " 

"Well, then, I just jabbed my old bowie knife 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

in his heart before he had time to get that toma- 
hawk down on my head and — that's all there was 
to it." 

"That's all?" The audience of the hero in his 
own kitchen, was more than enthusiastic. Will 
grunted. 

"Well, not exactly," he laughed. "I'd been 
ragin' around like a badger full of sand burrs 
about what they'd done to Custer. And when I 
saw old Yellowhand swallowing dust there, I just 
kept on working that bowie knife. And almost 
before I knew what I'd done, I'd 'lifted his hair' 
and was waving the scalp in the air. 

"'First scalp for Custer!' I yelled, and then 
things sure did happen. All those Dog Soldiers 
made a rush at me, and all the Fifth Cavalry 
made a rush at the Dog Soldiers, and blame me 
if they didn't hit each other just about where I 
stood. I thought that fighting duels with Injuns 
w r as pretty good, but Mamma, it wasn't anything 
to what I'd gotten into from having a couple of 
armies running over me. I never saw so many 
horses' feet in my life. And there I was, just 
running around in circles" — he laughed until the 
tears rolled down his cheeks — "waving this old 
scalp and yelling 'first scalp for Custer' and try- 
273 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ing to find some place where somebody was shoot- 
ing in my direction. 

"Well, afterwhile things began to split up a 
bit, and I found a dead horse and laid down be- 
side it. There was a dead soldier laying there too, 
so I got his gun and ammunition and began 
pumping away. Pretty soon the Injuns hap- 
pened to remember that they had a pressing en- 
gagement over the hill, and about that time I got 
a new mount and managed to catch up with the 
General just as he was starting the pursuit. And 
how we did run those fellows! 

"My, Mamma, but it was good!" Then he sud- 
denly sobered. "We didn't do much laughing 
right then — we were too busy. There wasn't one 
of us that hadn't some friend with Custer. I'd 
known him, Mamma, and I'd always admired him 
— a lot. You know that. And we were going to 
get revenge. We sure got it. 

"We chased those Injuns over the hill and 
thirty-five miles toward the Red Cloud Agency. 
We drove 'em so hard that they lost horses, tepees 
and everything else. Well, they got to the 
agency and went rarin' in and we went rarin' in 
right after 'em, and we didn't give a rap how 
many thousand Injuns there were around there. 
274 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

We were out for blood, and we didn't care what 
happened. 

"But by the time we'd gotten to the agency 
proper, it was dark, and we couldn't tell what 
Injuns had been on the warpath and what hadn't. 
There were thousands of them around there and 
we'd have licked every one of them if they'd ever 
showed anything that looked like a fight. But 
they didn't, Mamma, they were the meekest little 
lambs that you ever did see. And the first thing 
you know, out came an interpreter and asked me 
if I'd condescend to talk to old Cut-Nose. 

"Who's he?" I asked. 

" 'Yellowhand's father/ the interpreter said. 
Well, Mamma, I kind of scratched my head. It's 
one thing to kill an old sonavagun in a duel and 
another to walk in and tell his pappy about it, 
but I took a chance. Know what he wanted? 
Wanted to know if I'd take four mules and some 
beads and stuff for that scalp and the warbonnet 
that I'd taken off of Yellowhand. And you can't 
guess what I told him !" 

"What?" 

"I said to him, just like this" — Will gestured 
scornfully — "that I wouldn't take forty mules for 
that scalp. I said to him that I wanted to send it 
275 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

to my sweetheart for a souvenir and then, just 
as soon as I got where I could box it up I " 

"Sent it here — and I took one look at it and 
fainted. Will Cody—" but I smiled as I 
chided him — "don't you ever send me another In- 
dian scalp as long as you live." 

Will chuckled, rumblingly. 

"I'll do better than that," he promised, "I'll 
never scalp another Injun!" 



CHAPTER XIII 

Will's story was more than exciting — it was 
alluring, for it called up to me all the fascination 
of the West, the West that had gotten into my 
blood and never would leave. I wanted to go 
back there; I was tired of this existence in the 
East, and I too had my grief which I desired to 
assuage in the bright, free sunshine of the West. 
I told my desires to Will. 

"Mamma," he answered. "You're going to 
have your wish. This season — and then we'll 
have our home out there, where I can come in the 
summertime and just soak up the West until 
it's time to go back to the road again. Because, 
you know, they still seem to want me." 

And, in fact, they were wanting him more than 
ever. With the beginning of the next road sea- 
son, Will procured some real Indians from the 
Red Cloud Agency, among them some of the 
renegades that he had helped to chase after the 
killing of Yellowhand. With these appearing on 
the stage in a regular Indian war dance, the 
277 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

show business became more popular than ever, 
and the money rolled into the box office in a con- 
stantly increasing stream. 

I traveled with Will nearly all that season, 
carrying our youngest baby with us, while Arta 
attended a seminary in Rochester. Then, in 
February, I said good-by to the East — and a glad 
"hello" to the West I loved. 

It was a new West that I went to. Changes 
had come, even in the few years I had been away. 
The work of Will Cody and others of his kind 
had driven the Indians far from the settled lines 
of communication between the East and the far 
West, with the result that North Platte, Neb., 
near the Wyoming line, was a busy little place 
now, and growing constantly. It was there, on 
a farm which Will had purchased near town — 
he also had bought a tremendous ranch on Dismal 
River sixty miles away, in partnership with 
Major North, the former commander of the 
Pawnee scouts — that I was to make my home. 
And a far different home it was to be from the 
little log cabin in which we had lived at Fort Mc- 
pherson. 

We had money now, plenty of it. Never was 
there a losing day with the show in which Will 
278 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

was appearing. Never was there a time when 
records for attendance were not broken, while 
thousands who sought to see Will were turned 
away. The plays had become better now, and 
Will's acting had reached something that bore a 
semblance to a real stage presence. But let it be 
said to his credit that he never really became an 
actor in the true sense of the word. First and 
last he was a plainsman, with the plainsman's 
voice and the plainsman's bearing — and it was 
this which made him even more popular. 

Yes, it was indeed a far different home. Fur- 
nishings came all the way from Chicago and New 
York. The lumber had been hauled across coun- 
try, and there, out on the plains, we built a house 
that was little less than a mansion. And it was 
there that I greeted Will when he finished his 
season in May. 

The summer months passed, while we rode the 
plains, made a trip through the tumbling hills to 
Dismal River, hunted and fished and lived the 
true life of the West. Will had bought great 
herds of cattle in partnership with Major North, 
and had caused them to be driven cross country 
from the eastern part of the state, while all about 
us ranchers were beginning to take up their 
279 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

claims and begin the life that Will had always 
dreamed for the West. The untrammeled 
"Great American Desert" was beginning to fade 
forever. There was need of irrigation — and 
Will's money flowed freely into the projects. 
And where water flowed upon soil properly 
treated, there did the desert blossom. Again a 
dream that Buffalo Bill had cherished for years, 
came into the being of reality. 

A hazy, beautiful summer. Then Will went 
away, almost boyish in his reluctance to leave the 
West. But before he went 

"I've been thinking of something all this sum- 
mer, Mamma," he told me, "something that will 
please you if I am able to work it out. I won't 
tell you what it is now — it will take a lot of 
planning and a lot of money. But it won't be 
this stage business; I'm sick of it!" 

"And so am I!" I agreed. "I wish there was 
something else, Will " 

He laughed. 

"That's what I'm trying to figure out!" he 
told me happily. "And some day I may be able 
to do it!" 

It was years, however, before he succeeded, 
years in which I added to his ranch, and attended 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

to the thousand and one details of farming life 
that must be looked after, while he was away on 
the stage; years in which a new daughter Irma 
came to us, and in which one went away. For 
Orra, the second of our children to be born in 
that little log cabin at Fort McPherson, died, 
to be taken back to Rochester and buried beside 
her little companion of those days of uncertainty, 
Kit Carson; years in which both Will and myself 
tired more and more of the rough and tumble 
plays in which he toured the country. Then, at 
last, came the outline of the great scheme. 

"I want to talk it all over with you first, 
Mamma," he said one night as we sat in the big 
living room of our North Platte home. "You're 
the first one I've told about it and if you don't 
like it " 

"But you haven't told me yet, Will." 

"That's right ! Don't know just where to start. 
Well, the idea is this. All these people back 
East want to find out just what the West looks 
like. And you can't tell them on a stage. There 
ain't the room. So why not just take the West 
right to 'em?" 

"How?" I was staring. 
281 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"On railroad trains!" Will was more than 
excited now. And so was I — but dubious. 

"I don't understand. Do you mean to " 

"Take the prairies and the Injuns and every- 
thing else right to 'em. That's the idea! There 
ain't the room on a stage to do anything worth 
while. But there would be on a big lot, where 
we could have horses and buffalo and the old 
Deadwood stagecoach and everything! How does 
it sound, Mamma?" 

"Fine!" I was as enthusiastic as he. "And, 
Will, you can get that old Deadwood stage- 
coach too. I heard just the other day that it 
hadn't been used lately — you mean the one that 
was held up so many times?" 

"That's the one. They've put a new one in its 
place and they want to get rid of this old one. 
Seem to think it's unlucky or something of the 
kind. And, Mamma, we could have that run 
around the show-grounds and have the Injuns 
chase it, just like they really did chase it, then 
have the scouts and everybody come along and 
run the Injuns away. Wouldn't that be fun?" 

"Oh, Will! And have real people in the stage- 
coach and let them shoot blanks at the Indians 
and " 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Sure! Tell you what, Mamma, that'd be 
something they'd never seen before. That'd be 
showing 'em the West!" 

So together we talked it all over, like two en- 
thusiastic, happy children planning a 'play- 
show" in the back yard. Then Will began to 
make his arrangements, first with Doctor Carver, 
who lived in the city and who had a number of 
trained horses, then with Merrill Keith, also of 
North Platte, who had tamed some buffalo and 
had them grazing around his house, with Buck 
Taylor, a cowboy, and with the various plains- 
men about the adjacent country. And finally, 
one day, we all went down to a large, open space 
behind the railroad depot, to hold the first re- 
hearsal. 

It wasn't exactly what could be called a per- 
formance. And it wasn't a rehearsal. Some one 
would run out a steer and Buck Taylor would 
lasso it, while Will and I sat on a pile of ties, 
lending our judicious wisdom to the arranging of 
the performance. Then the buffalo would be 
shunted in from the cattleyard, and Will would 
leap upon a horse and pursue them. After this, 
would come his introduction and his greeting to 
the audience — of which I formed about ninety- 
283 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

nine per cent, and my baby Irma, less than a 
year old, the rest. And invariably, when it was 
over, Will would turn to me and ask: 

"How was that, Mamma?" 

"I liked it, Will," I would answer. "But will 
you have to talk so loud?" 

"Loud?" Then he would laugh. "Why, 
Mamma, they're making a canvas wall back East 
to go around this rigout that will be so long you 
can't see from one end to the other!" 

Thus the practising went on, while Will, in 
lieu of glass balls, would throw tin cans into the 
air, and shoot at them, that he might see just how 
his "expert rifle shooting" would appear. One 
by one new ideas came, and gradually the show 
began to shape itself into the beginning of the 
tremendous affair that was to come in later years. 
The Pine Ridge Indian agency was not so far 
away and Will went there, making his arrange- 
ments for the Indians who were to accompany 
the show, to chase the Old Deadwood stagecoach, 
to do their war dances and appear in the parades. 
For Will and I had been reading up on circuses 
now, and felt that we knew just what should be 
done. 

But we didn't. We didn't know the first thing 
284 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

about it. Nor was it until Nate Salsbury, well 
versed in all the necessities of showmanship, came 
into the combination, that the actual arrange- 
ments for the tour began to take shape. And 
during this time — 

Near us lived a little boy whom Will loved. 
Johnny Baker was his name, a grinning, amiable 
little fellow who worshipped the very ground 
that Will walked upon, and who loved nothing 
better than to sit on Will's knee in the long eve- 
nings and listen to the stories of the plains. And 
when the "practising" began down behind the 
depot, Johnny Baker would be sure to appear 
somewhere, watching wide-eyed, wondering, 
while the performance went through its various 
phases. And at last he summoned the courage 
to ask what was in his heart. 

"Buffalo Bill," he said one day, "I wish I 
could go with you." 

Will laughed. 

"What would you do in a Wild West show, 
Johnny?" 

But Johnny Baker had an answer: 

"Well, I could black your boots — and — and — 
make myself awful handy !" 

So a new actor was signed up for the Buffalo 
285 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Bill Wild West aggregation — Master John 
Baker. Will had taught him to shoot in the days 
in which he had played around our house — in 
fact, there never was a time when guns were not 
booming around there and Will was not shooting 
coins out of his children's fingers, while I stood 
on the veranda and gasped a remonstrance that 
the first thing he knew, he would have a finger- 
less family ! All about the house were shells and 
shells and more shells, while every tree, every 
fence post, was at one time, or another, the rest- 
ing place of some sort of a target. And when 
Johnny Baker joined the show, it was to shoot in 
the performance as a "Boy Wonder." And he 
lived up to his name, for there came the time 
when the "official announcer" would roar forth 
to the assembled throngs: 

"And now-w-w-w-w, allow-w-w me to intro- 
duce to you, Johnny Baker, champion trick rifle 
shot of the world!" 

Thus was another actor made — and for that 
matter, the whole thing was new to practically 
everyone who took a part. Not that they were 
doing a thing that was new to them in their ren- 
dition of the life on the plains — but doing it in a 
new atmosphere, and before an audience. Or at 
286 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

least, they were to do it before an audience, and 
constantly Will would shout to them as they 
practised behind the depot : 

"Now, boys, when we start this rigout just 
don't you pay any attention to the folks on the 
seats. Forget all about them. Just you don't 
know they're there and you won't get scared." 

But, for that matter, it was to be a different 
thing from an appearance on the stage. There 
would be the big, wide lot in which to work, 
horses and solid ground and excitement. There 
would be no lines for the men of the saddle and 
the lariat — and practically every cowman who ac- 
companied that exhibition could rope and tie a 
steer with his eyes shut — to say nothing of riding 
the wildest horse that ever ran, without half try- 
ing. 

So, day after day and week after week, the 
rehearsals went on. Out from the East came the 
faithful Major Burke to ask and receive the right 
to prepare the advance for the show, to look after 
the posting of the great bills that were being run 
off on the big presses in Chicago, and to "attend" 
to the newspapers. He came and he went again 
— the show was nearing its debut. 

Finally, arrived the time when we all jour- 
287 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

neyed to Omaha, there to find great railroad cars 
that had been arranged for by Mr. Salsbury and 
painted with the name of Buffalo Bill. The long 
stretches of canvas had been put in place on the 
show lot and the seats erected. And it was there 
that the first performance of Buffalo Bill's Wild 
West saw the light of the show world. 

And what a different thing it was from those 
foolish plays in which Will had been forced by 
public demand to appear ! How clean, how sharp 
and bright, and how truly it depicted the West! 
Here was something that he could love and I 
could love — and we put into it everything that 
our hearts possessed. With the plays it had been 
a different matter; they were only a mockery, 
only 

"Why, gosh, Mamma," Will had said to me 
after the ending of one season, "I'd just like to 
know how many dramatic critics went crazy try- 
ing to figure out the plot of that thing. I ap- 
peared in it all season and I learned my lines, but 
I'm jiggered if I ever could find any head or 
tail of it. The only time that it got good was 
when the Injuns came on and got killed. And 
even that got tiresome!" 

But with the Wild West show, it was different. 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Here was riding, and here was roping; here the 
buffalo thundered along in their milling herd, 
while Will and the assembled cowboys circled 
them and displayed the manner in which the herds 
were hunted and the bison killed on the plains. 
Here was the Old Deadwood stagecoach, and its 
story was one of realism. It was not merely a bit 
of "faking," or of stage scenery; it was the 
original stage, scarred by the bullets of Indians 
and highwaymen, its accouterments rusted 
where it had lain by the side of the road for 
months at a time after some massacre, in which 
its horses had been killed and it abandoned. Here 
was Will, riding at a full gallop, his reins loose 
on his horse's neck, while, his rifle to his shoulder, 
he popped the glass balls that were thrown up 
ahead of him, never dreaming that he was work- 
ing for a living — he was merely playing, playing 
just as he had played out on the broad expanses 
of the fields near our home in North Platte, where 
the ground was covered with the shells resultant 
from target shooting. 

Here were the Indians, real Indians, who had 
come straight from the reservation and who had 
sufficient faith in the prowess of Pahaska to en- 
trust themselves to him. An Indian is a chary 
289 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

creature. He reveres the man who can fight him 
and whip him — and for that reason, even the 
worst red-skinned enemy of Pahaska looked up 
to him as a worthy foe — and as a friend when the 
opportunity came to bury the hatchet. 

So we were happy — for were we not still liv- 
ing in the West? Though we might travel to 
far parts of the world, here was the country we 
loved, still with us — the cowpunchers, the In- 
dians, the plainsmen and scouts, the atmosphere 
and the life and the excitement. 

Never was there a show which was more wel- 
comed than Will's on that opening day in Omaha. 
And as for Chicago 

I can't remember the name of the place now. 
All I know that it was indoors, with boxes for 
prominent persons, with a tanbark ring, and with 
poor old Major Burke running around like the 
proverbial be-headed chicken. For this was a 
big city, and here the test would come in earnest. 
And success meant worlds! 

Our every cent was in that show now. It had 
cost thousands and thousands to purchase the 
equipment, to hire the actors and to transport 
the big organization across the country. Other 
thousands were tied up in printing and the 
290 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

salaries of men going on in the advance to make 
the arrangements for the show's coming. And if 
we failed in Chicago, we knew that failure would 
follow us everywhere. 

An anxious day of preparation. Then to- 
gether, Will and I, from one of the entrances, 
watched the rilling of the seats. For a long time, 
it seemed that the great stretches of vacancy 
would never be eradicated, in spite of the crowds 
that were flooding in through the doorways. 
Then, at last, every seat was gone, every avail- 
able bit of space taken, and the show began. 

The first entrance brought applause. This 
grew to cheers and shouts. Throughout the long 
program the audience clapped and shouted its ap- 
proval. Time after time Will was called forth, 
mounted on his big, sleek horse, to receive the ap- 
proval of the tremendous crowds. There was no 
worriment after that — our fortunes were made. 

Throughout the East went the show, and its 
fame went before it — to say nothing of Major 
Burke, traveling on and on, ever before, and 
talking constantly of just one being — William 
Frederick Cody. For Burke had transferred all 
the love that he had felt for Mile. Morlacchi, his 
291 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

goddess, to Will, his god, and never was there a 
man more devoted. 

Once upon a time — it was years later — in 
Portland, Oregon, a city editor leaned across his 
desk to his star reporter, and handed him an as- 
signment slip. 

"Major Burke's over at the Multomah," he 
ordered. "Go over and get an interview with 
him. What I want you to do" — and the city 
editor smiled — "is to try to get him to talk about 
something else besides Buffalo Bill. Try him on 
everything that you can think about that's foreign 
to Cody and see if you can't get him off the sub- 
ject for once in his life. If you can do that, 
you've got a good story." 

The reporter went on his mission. And when 
he came back two hours later, it was with a worn 
and wan expression. 

"A fine thing you got me into!" he said jok- 
ingly. "I'm about half dead." 

"Why?" The city editor's innocent look had a 
smile behind it. 

"Why? Say, listen, I went over there to the 

Multomah and got hold of Major Burke. I got 

him started on the Balkan situation, and during 

the first minute he mentioned at least ten times, 

292 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ten different things that William Frederick 
Cody would do if he could only go over there and 
get into the scrap. Then I tried another tack 
and he was back at me on that. I changed to 
something else and he used the word 'Cody' on 
an average of once every five seconds. Then I 
made the mistake of mentioning something about 
the name of the hotel and the fact that it must be 
of Indian origin. That was my finish right there. 
Burke backed me up in a corner and told me 
Buffalo Bill's Indian fighting history from the 
cradle to the grave. I'm all worn out!" 

And not once, during all of this, had Major 
Burke known the object of that visit. Nor did 
he feel that he was duty bound to mention Will's 
name — it was simply the blind adoration of a man 
who could think nothing else, dream nothing else, 
know nothing else, but Buffalo Bill. 

Boys they were in their companionship, joking, 
laughing, bickering boys, always having some 
foolish disagreement, walking away from each 
other to pout a while, then, finally to end up 
arm in arm, cemented by bonds that no quarrel 
ever could weaken. And only once did one of 
those quarrels ever amount to serious propor- 
tions, stormy as they might be. 
293 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

It was in Italy, and Will had ordered certain 
preparations made at the docks. He arrived there 
to find that they had not been made, and what 
was more, that Major John M. Burke was among 
the missing. Will's arms went wide. 

"Where's Old Scarf ace!" he shouted — a long, 
jagged scar on one side of Major Burke's cheek 
had given him the name. "Go out and find him. 
I want to know why he wasn't around here when 
this ship came in!" 

Out went the emissaries, to search here and 
there, and at last to find Major John M. Burke, 
sweating and bedraggled in an Italian newspaper 
office. He had lost his interpreter, press time 
was coming, and John M. Burke was trying to 
tell the story of the coming of the Wild West 
show to an Italian editor who didn't understand 
a word of English. There they were, waving 
their arms at each other, both shouting at the 
top of their voices, and neither able to make the 
other understand. The searching party dragged 
the Major away and down to the docks. Will, 
his show delayed, the arrangements for its arrival 
lacking, took one look at the Major and waved 
his arms wildly. 

294. 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"John Burke!" he shouted. "You're fired! 
Understand that? You're fired!" 

"I understand," came the answer, as the ad- 
vance man turned dolefully away. Five hours 
later, Mr. Salisbury, in London, received a tele- 
gram which read : 

My scalp hangs in the tepee of Pahaska at the foot of 
Mount Vesuvius. Please send me money to take me back 
to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. 

But before Mr. Salisbury could even send a 
cable asking the cause of the disturbance, the 
world was smooth again, and the god and his 
admirer were arm in arm once more. 

Far ahead of my story I have gone, it is true — 
but only by such an illustration could I convey 
the devotion of the man who traveled ahead of 
the show as it made its first trip through the 
country. The season ended and we went back 
to North Platte, there to plan and scheme again, 
and to dream of greater things for the coming 
season, things that would portray every feature 
of the winning of the West. That season came, 
and another after it. Then arrived the beginning 
of Will's trip of triumph. 

We both had talked about it often, and made 
our arrangements. I was to stay at home and 
295 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL ' 

look after the business of the ranch, while Will 
was away. And he — he was going to a new ad- 
venture, Europe! 

It was through Will's letters that I followed 
him on that trip, through the chartering of the 
Steamer Nebraska to carry his aggregation to 
England, his arrival there, his opening perform- 
ance and then, the visits of Gladstone, of the 
Prince and Princess of Wales, and even of Queen 
Victoria herself. And judging from those let- 
ters, there was enjoyment in every bit of it all. 

"What do you think, Mamma," he wrote me 
once. "I've just held four kings! And I was 
the joker! It wasn't a card game, either. You 
remember the old stage coach? Well, I got a re- 
quest from the Prince of Wales to let him ride 
on the seat with me, while inside would be the 
kings of Denmark, Saxony, Greece and Austria. 
Well, I didn't know just what to say for a mo- 
ment. I was a little worried and yet I couldn't 
tell the Prince of Wales that I was afraid to 
haul around four kings, with Indians shooting 
blanks around. So I just said I was as honored 
as all getout, and we made the arrangements. 

"And, Mamma, I just had to have my joke, so 
I went around and told the Indians to whoop it 
296 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

up as they never did before. We loaded all the 
kings in there and the Prince got up on the seat 
with me, and then I just cut 'er loose. We sure 
did rock around that arena, with the Indians 
yelling and shooting behind us, fit to kill. And 
Mamma, — I wouldn't say it out loud — but I'm 
pretty sure that before the ride was over, most 
of those kings were under the seat. It sure was 
fun. 

"When the ride stopped, the Prince of Wales 
said to me that he bet this was the first time that 
I'd ever held four kings. I told him that I'd 
held four kings before, but this was the first time 
that I'd ever acted as the royal joker. Well, he 
laughed and laughed. Then he had to explain it 
to all those kings, each in his own langauge — and 
I felt kind of sorry for him. 

"The Prince gave me a souvenir, a sort of 
crest, with diamonds all around it. It sure is 
pretty and I'm real proud of it." 

Thus went Will's trip to England, and he 
came home a greater idol to the American small 
boy than ever. For three years his show did 
not move from Staten Island, and then it was 
only to return to Europe again, that he might 
repeat in France, Spain, Italy and other coun- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

tries, what he had done in England, there to meet 
the rulers and potentates and receive from them 
gifts and souvenirs of their appreciation. Nor 
did the Pope refuse his presence when Will Cody 
went to pay his respects. 

By this time, Will had become a true show- 
man. Everything he saw, everywhere he went, 
he found something to intertwine with the thing 
that had become, the realization of a great dream 
for him — his Wild West show. Witness: 

"I've just come back from an interesting trip 
out to see the Coliseum," he wrote me once. "You 
know, that is the place where all the ancient 
Romans used to gather and stick their thumbs 
up or down when the gladiators came out to fight. 
That was where the lions used to eat up the Chris- 
tians too, and all that sort of thing, and I thought 
it would be fine if I could take my Wild West 
show out there and give the performances inside 
the old place and really show these Romans how 
the Americans whoop it up. Well, I looked all 
over the place, but it's pretty well decayed. It's 
all falling to pieces, and it wouldn't do for a 
show at all. So I guess I'll have to give up the 
idea." 

On and on the show went through Europe, and 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

then packed up for the winter at the little village 
of Benfield, in Alsace-Lorraine, while Will 
hurried back to this country for a rest until the 
season should open again. And hardly had he 
landed when there came the call for him — the old 
call of the West, of the saddle and the rifle. For 
the Indians had broken forth in their last cam- 
paign on the warpath. 



CHAPTER XIV 

Far out into Nevada, lured by some mysteri- 
ous message that no one ever could trace, emis- 
saries of the Sioux Tribe had been lured to hear 
a greeting from a man who called himself God. 
Some innocent fool of a faker he was, who had 
even gone to the extent of piercing his hands, or 
burning them with acid, that they might simulate 
the scars on the hands of Jesus Christ. Some- 
where he had learned a few of the tricks of 
electricity and had procured some electrical bat- 
teries and fireworks. And with these, he planned 
to delude the Indians. 

Why? No one ever knew or ever will know. 
But the Indians went, selected from their various 
tribes, to hear his message, and then to hurry 
back to their camps again. Twisted and warped 
became that message. The Indians, fretting 
under government supervision and under a 
system of rations that was not always plentiful, 
leaped at anything that sounded to them like a 
prophecy of a return to the old days of the plains. 
800 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"Ghost shirts" made their appearance, cheap, 
cotton things, made by the Indians from pieces 
of sacking, and splotched with ochre and red 
paint. Here, there, everywhere, the story 
traveled that these shirts would be bullet proof, 
that the Sioux might again take to the warpath, 
and that this time, they need not fear the bullets 
of the palefaces. Throughout the Dakota coun- 
tries, the tom-toms began to beat and the Indians 
to weave themselves in their weird dances about 
the camp fires. Couriers hastened to Sitting Bull, 
requesting that he take part in the campaign. 
General Miles hurried from Chicago, and Will 
rushed toward Sitting Bull, that he might 
persuade the old warrior to remain on the path 
of peace. But before Will could reach him, 
Sitting Bull had been killed by some of his own 
people. 

And then — Wounded Knee. The troops had 
been seeking to cut off the Indians under Big 
Foot from joining other forces that had reached 
the Bad Lands. The Seventh Cavalry had sur- 
rounded them, and the order had gone forth that 
the Indians must surrender their arms. This 
they were doing when — 

A shot! No one ever knew just whence it 
301 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL' 

came — whether from some soldier who had 
touched a trigger by accident, or from some In- 
dian, crazed by the exhortations of the medicine 
men, dancing about, chanting and playing on 
their bone pipes as they called for the Messiah 
to come to their aid. But the shot came, and 
with it terror. 

Indians and soldiers milled, the Indians fight- 
ing with their knives, the soldiers with their guns 
— even to the Hotchkiss cannon, which sent its 
great charges of shrapnel shrilling through the 
little valley of Wounded Knee creek, killing 
braves and bucks, squaws and papooses indis- 
criminately. It was bitterly cold — here, there the 
Indians ran, seeking some escape; but there was 
none. When night came their bodies dotted the 
frozen valley, and the snow of a blizzard was be- 
ginning to kill those who had not died of their 
wounds. 

It was to a scene like this that General Miles 
and Will Cody rode the next day. With the 
first news of the conflict, they had ridden their 
hardest to reach the battlefield that they might 
quell the fight, but in vain. And now they looked 
upon only the slain, crumpled, frozen forms of 
those who had fallen. The last Indian uprising 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

was at an end — now must come the real struggle, 
to so pacify the Indians, and to so convince them 
of the foolishness of their quest that never again 
would they seek to pit themselves against the 
overpowering elements of the American Army. 
And it was through General Miles and Will 
Cody that this was accomplished. 

A last great council was held. Haranguers 
told the stories of the Great White Chiefs. One 
by one General Miles made his promises for the 
future — that he would see that there was good 
treatment for the Indians — that the Indians must 
make good their promise to stay clear of the war- 
path, and to this purpose furnish hostages whose 
lives would be forfeit should the promise fail. To 
this Pahaska added his promises and then — 

"And if you follow the path of peace, I will 
try to be good to these braves that you hand into 
our keeping. I will take them over the great 
waters to strange countries. I will be kind to 
them." 

And Will made good his promise, for when the 
peace pipe was smoked at last, Will left for 
Europe with a new assembly of Indians for his 
Wild West show, Kicking Bear, Lone Bear, No 
Neck, Yankton Carlie, Black Heart, Long Wolf, 
303 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Scatter, Revenge, and the man upon whom all 
blame for the Indian uprising had been placed, 
Ta-ta-la Slotsla, Short Bull. Nor was it until 
twenty years later, that Will and I — or any white 
person, for that matter, were to hear the real, the 
pitiful story of Ta-ta-la Slotsla, and his journey 
to God that caused the death of so many of his 
tribesmen. 

Times had changed. The West had grown 
from that brawny, brawling youngster that we 
had known in the younger days, to a stalwart 
youth, with its great cities, with its tremendous 
ranches, its factories and its industries. It was 
what Will had dreamed back there in the old 
days when he was simply Will Cody and I his 
frightened young wife, making my first friend- 
ships with this wild, free West I really feared. 
Up in Wyoming, a town had spread itself near 
the canon of the Shoshone, and its name was that 
of Cody. Down in Arizona were irrigation and 
mining projects that owed their birth to Will. 
The thing that had been a desert once was bloom- 
ing now. The Old West was nearly gone. And 
to Will there came an inspiration, that of sealing 
the picture while yet there was the chance, to do 
in film what he had done in his Wild West shows, 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

and to make for posterity a thing that would live 
forever. 

"I can get the capital!" he confided to me with 
a boyish enthusiasm that belied the sixty or more 
years that had come to him. "I can get the out- 
fits — and why, Mamma, wouldn't it be just the 
thing to go down into Dakota and put the last 
outbreak of the Sioux into motion pictures? I've 
written General Miles about it, and General 
Frank Baldwin down in Denver, and General 
Maus and Lee and all the others. They'll come. 
And then we'll send a copy of it to the govern- 
ment files for history." 

"But Will " I smiled as I used to smile in 

the old days — "how about the Indians?" 

"They'll come. I'll just send out word that 
Pahaska wants them, and they'll come. Short 
Bull's still alive, and No Neck and Women's 
Dress and a lot of the others. Just you wait and 
see. They'll come." 

And so the preparations went forward, until 
at last we gathered in the little town of Pine 
Ridge, just at the edge of the Indian reserva- 
tion. Twenty miles away was Wounded Knee, 
and there we went to camp until the time when 
the picture taking should begin. 
305 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Over the hills they came, in wagons, on horse- 
back; from Manderson, from the far stretches of 
the Bad Lands, from the hills and the valleys, 
the old Indians who once had fought against 
Buffalo Bill. Withered were the faces of many 
of them now, old and aged the arms that once 
had swung a tomahawk. But with them also 
came their sons, the braves of to-day, strong and 
young. By the hundreds they gathered, each to 
come forward at the sight of the tall, straight 
man whose long hair now had turned from black 
to white, to take his hand and to exclaim: 

"How kola! Waste Pahaska!" 

"Waste Pahaska!" Good Pahaska, it meant, 
good Pahaska, who was their friend. Time had 
been when they had crept toward each other, each 
with his rifle poised for the first shot, but that 
was in the days of the past. He had been a good 
enemy then, an enemy who never took an unfair 
advantage, and an enemy who never showed fear. 
And that is the sort of an enemy the Indian 
reveres. To-day, he was the same sort of a friend 
that he had been an enemy, and they obeyed 
his call like the call of some Great Master. 

And so they camped, to dance at night in the 
cold moonlight, to) sing the wailing songs of 
306 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

death in memory of the bucks and squaws, buried 
far up there in the long trench on the hill, the 
victims of Wounded Knee. Exactly where the 
tepees had set on that red day of battle were 
the tepees stretched now, where the braves sang 
their death song on that frigid afternoon in the 
'90's, now sang the survivors in the bleak days of 
autumn 1913. It all had its effect. Sons of 
braves who had fallen began to talk among them- 
selves. Sons of squaws who had died, innocent 
victims of the battle, began to dream of a great 
scheme of revenge. Few were they in numbers, 
but their plan had the ramifications of whole- 
sale death. 

Out on the plains with us were six hundred 
members of the Twelfth Cavalry. From every 
costuming company in the East had the old uni- 
forms been gathered, just such uniforms as were 
worn in the days when the soldiers were "boys 
in blue" and khaki was a thing unknown. Even 
to the old goloshes had the faith of costuming 
gone, and to the type of rifle carried by the sol- 
diery the 44.70. And therein lay danger! 

Many a rifle had remained on the Indian 
reservation since that day at Wounded Knee. It 
had become, in fact, the standard of rifle among 
307 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the older Indian families, and ammunition — real 
ammunition — was easily procured. When the 
time for the sham battle between the Indians and 
the soldiers would come to be placed in film as 
the cameras ground away, blanks were purposed, 
of course. But suppose — suppose that when those 
Indians started their mimic fight against the sol- 
diery that they gained a revenge for the defeat 
of Wounded Knee, and that the rifles which they 
carried had in their barrels ammunition that 
was real, ammunition that was lead-tipped and 
deadly, while those of the soldiers contained only 
blanks ! 

It was a time of ferment. Back on the old 
battlefields again, the hearts and minds of the 
Indians were returning to other days. Old 
grudges, that long were forgotten, began to rise 
again. Councils were held — one afternoon the 
older Indians, not knowing of the plot that was 
beginning to teem in the brains of younger bucks, 
told their grievances before General Miles and 
Will, and received from them the promise that a 
report would be made at Washington. All 
through the camp were memories — every few 
minutes, some wailing squaw would make her 
way to the long trench atop the hill, there to stare 
308 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

down" at the mound which contained the body of 
her loved ones, slain at Wounded Knee. Cease- 
lessly the death song shrilled through the chill 
air — the Indians were living again in the days 
when Big Foot led his band, and led it to death. 

By night, atop the gray hills, circles formed, 
and dancing figures wailed here and there, while 
the torn toms sounded and the gutteral shout of 
the chieftains guided the dance. All about us 
were the reminders of a day that was gone — 
reminders that might bring death. And it was in 
the midst of this that Will got word of the plot. 

Efforts had been made to buy cartridges in 
large numbers for the 44.70's. The requests had 
been refused. But whether the young Indians 
who sought to bring about a massacre had ob- 
tained them in other places — that was not known. 
Hurriedly Will assembled the chiefs, the old 
Indians whom he knew and whom he could trust. 
Quickly he told his story. Silently the old chiefs 
listened — old Woman's Dress, No Neck, Flat- 
iron and Short Bull. They grunted, then paddled 
away. Shortly there came the call of the 
haranguer echoing through the Indian village: 

"Enokone eupo! Enokone eupo!" 

It was the call of assembly — my spelling, of 
309 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

course, is only phonetic. An hour more, and the 
old chiefs were again before their Great White 
Chief, their Pahaska. There would be no bullets 
in the guns when the white men met the Sioux 
before the Box with the One Eye. The matter 
had been settled. The young braves had seen the 
wrong. They would go — back whence they came. 
Pahaska need not fear for his paleface friends. 
The day of the warpath was over. And so it 
came about that Short Bull, charged for years 
with the fomenting of the war, came to be a peace- 
maker. And so it also came about that while 
there at Wounded Knee, back in the environ- 
ment of the last Indian rebellion, that he told 
his story for the first time, the story of a griev- 
ing, worn, old man, wrongly accused wrongfully 
treated, wrongfully used. For Ta-ta-la Slotsla, 
Short Bull, by his own story, was only a tool in 
the grip of Indian politics, a brave bringing the 
word of peace, only to find it transformed into 
the call of war. 

It was in his little tent that he told us the story, 
to Theodore Wharton, the director of the history, 
to Mrs. Wharton, to Will and myself. A blizzard 
whirled and whined outside, while beside the little 
stove, a faded old man, a cheap overcoat wrapped 
310 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

close about him, huddled pitifully in his attempt 
at warmth. Beside him was his interpreter, Horn 
Cloud. The marks of the warrior were absent 
from both of them now — no feathers or beads, 
no tomahawk or rifle. Short Bull, he who had 
been blamed for a war, was only a little, weasened, 
broken-hearted old man. There came a question, 
an interpretation, a flow of words from the old 
chief, a smile. The interpreter turned. 

"He say you the first person who ever ask 
that," came the announcement. "He say to 
thank you — now he get to tell the truth." 

Short Bull raised his arms. Long he spoke, 
then in the voice of the interpreter, came his 
words : 

"They say I am the man who brought war. 
No! I am the man who wanted peace. All these 
years I have waited — I have been Ta-ta-la 
Slotsla, the man forgotten by his people. They 
did not want me to tell — because they knew that 
I would tell the truth. But the Long Sleep is 
coming. Ta-ta-la Slotsla will tell. 

"My people were hungry in 1888 and in 1889. 

There was no wood to burn in the tepees and we 

shivered. On the Rosebud agency, where I lived 

with my people, the squaw and the papoose cried 

311 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

for food, but it did not come. Then, all at once, 
we heard a message. The Messiah was coming 
back. The White Man had turned him out. The 
White Man did not love him any more and he was 
coming back to the Indian. There would be 
food and there would be fire for the tepees — the 
Messiah had said so. 

"A brave rode to the Rosebud with a message 
from Red Cloud at the Pine Ridge agency to 
choose a brave-hearted man to go to the Messiah. 
One chief was to go from each of the twelve 
tribes, and my people chose me. I obeyed. We 
met at the head of Wind River. Some of us rode. 
Some of us walked. It was many sleeps away, 
but we were going to the Messiah. He was at 
Pyramid Lake in Nevada, and he had sent for 
us. 

"It was a long time before we got there. We 
knew where to go — the messages had told us. 
And one afternoon when we waited in front of 
the great rocks at Pyramid Lake, we looked up 
and he was there. He had come out of the air — 
we had not seen him before. Now, he was there 
and we kneeled down like we kneeled down when 
the missionaries prayed for us." 

Horn Cloud, the interpreter, spread his hands. 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

"I know how about that," he said. "He hid 
behind big rocks, see — then jump out. They 
think he float through air." 

But the story of Short Bull had begun again. 

"It was at the setting of the sun, and the light 
caught on his robe and it was all colors and 
blazed like gold and floated back to the west " 

"Changeable silk," I heard some one say softly. 
The story went on. 

"He say for us to pray and be glad that we had 
met the Messiah. He say good times are coming 
for the Indian. He say when we go back to 
sing and dance for the time would come when the 
Indian would not be poor. He say that white 
man the Indian's friend. And when we look up, 
he was gone." 

There was a moment of silence. I drew closer 
to Will at the shrill and the shriek of the blizzard 
without. Short Bull pulled the narrow collar of 
his old overcoat closer about his neck and spread 
his withered, scrawny old hands. 

"There was a little house by the side of the lake 
and we slept in it," he went on, through his in- 
terpreter. "Then next day, a little white boy he 
come to us and he say his father want to see us 

in the willow patch " 

313 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

What fakery! Not contenting himself with 
imitating Jesus Christ, this being of Pyramid 
Lake had even given God a grandson! But evi- 
dently the Indian, dazed as they were by the sup- 
posed heavenly messages of this mysterious be- 
ing, fired by the thought of happiness to come, 
did not stop to think of the inconsistency. The 
story was continued: 

"We went to the willow patch. The Messiah 
was waiting — he had on a shirt with marks on 
it — like this." He lifted one of the "property" 
ghost shirts that was being used in the picture. 
"He show us his hands and there were marks 
in them where the white man crucified him and 
we say that the white man turn him out but that 
he do not blame him. He say that the white man 
had been bad to him, but that he was not angry. 
He say that the time has come when the White 
Man and the Indian shall be friends, and that 
we must go back and tell our people that they 
must live with the White Man in Peace. 

"He says" — Ta-ta-la Slotsla was becoming 
vehement now — "that we must tell our people to 
stamp out all trouble. He say that our children 
must go to the White Man's school, and that by 
and by our children's children will grow to be the 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

husbands and wives of the white woman and the 
white man. Then there will be no White Man, 
no Indian; we will all be one. 'Do as I say,' he 
say, 'and on earth you will be together and in 
heaven you will be together. And then, there 
will be no nights, no sleeps, no hunger and no 
cold.' And we listened, and we were happy. 

"He taught us to dance and he say for us to 
make ghost shirts like he wear and dance in them 
and praise the Messiah. He say for us to go 
home and spread the news that the Messiah had 
said for us to be at peace. And then he went 
away." 

There was a long silence. When Short Bull's 
voice began again, it was strange and cold and 
hard. 

"I went to my people. I told them what the 
Messiah had said, and they danced and were 
glad. Then Red Cloud, down at the Pine Ridge 
agency, sent for me and I went and American 
Horse and Fast Thunder and Red Cloud, they 
ask me what the Messiah had said, and I told 
them. But they went out and told their people 
that I had said other things." His hands were 
clenched hard. "They say I tell them that the 
Messiah he tell me to get my people and drive 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

the White Man back into the sea. They say I 
tell them that the Messiah promise to bring back 
the buffalo and the antelope if they drive the 
White Man away. 

"I went back to my people, but they had heard 
what Red Cloud and American Horse and Fast 
Thunder had said. I begged them to shut their 
ears to the evil words of those who did not speak 
truth. But they were dancing now, and build- 
ing fires and they would not listen to me. 

"American Horse and Red Cloud and Fast 
Thunder sent me the ghost shirts to bless — and 
I blessed them. But when I sent them back, they 
told their people that I had made them bullet- 
proof. They say that the Messiah he make me 
so I can stop my people from being hurt by the 
guns of the White Man. Then they send for 
me and tell me to come to Pine Ridge and fight 
the White Man. But I say 'No! I have seen the 
Messiah. I have seen the Man of God. I will 
live in peace. The Messiah he say to love the 
White Man and I will love him.' 

"The Brule Sioux went through to the war- 
path and they tell me to come along. But I stay 
on the Rosebud. Old Two Strikes moved his 
camp from the Little White River toward the 
316 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

Pine Ridge Agency, but I stayed on the Rose- 
bud. Then the young men ordered me to follow 
Two Strikes and I did. 

"They wanted cartridges, but I would not help 
get them. They say for me to fight the White 
Man, but I say 'No!'" 

The little man had risen now and was pacing 
up and down. Over in the corner, his squaw was 
wailing. The thin hands of Ta-ta-la Slotsla 
rose high in the air. 

" 'No! No!' I tell them, 'No! I keep calling to 
you and you do not hear me! I try to tell you 
there shall be no war; you will not listen. You 
say the white soldiers will kill me? Then I will 
die — I will not fight back. Once I was a warrior, 
once I wore the shield and the war club and the 
war bonnet ; but I have seen the Holy Man. Now 
there is peace; now there shall stay peace. 

" 'You choose me as the brave-hearted one to 
journey to the sunset to see the Messiah. I saw 
him and I brought you his message. You would 
not hear it. You changed it. Now' " — he spread 
his hands and bowed his black-haired head, in 
memory of a gesture of other days, " 'I am 
silent/ " 

The wind of the blizzard without had risen to 
317 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

a higher pitch, mingling with the wailing of the 
squaw in the corner. Short Bull folded his 
hands. 

"The next day I saddled my horse. I rode 
away. I came to the pine hills and looked out 
into the distance. They were fighting the Battle 
of Wounded Knee. I went on. And yet they 
blame me for a war — my own people who had 
sent me to the sunset to talk to the Holy Man." 

The old man was silent, huddling himself again 
by the side of the rickety little stove. The song 
of the squaw wavered and died away. She crept 
forward and took her place by the side of the 
man who was her brave, the man who had been 
blamed for a hundred deaths, yet who in her eyes, 
at least, was ever blameless. And together we 
left them, the faithful old squaw, and the broken- 
hearted, weasened old Indian who had seen and 
talked to God. 



CHAPTER XV 

And now, my story is ending. Indeed, the 
years of Will's show days were crammed with 
excitement, with many an accident in the long 
rushing journeys of the trains, many a "blow- 
down" and many a thrill. Yet, they were not 
the thrills that either of us had known in the old 
days — they were more of an echo, for the day of 
the old West that we had known in its raw, rough 
days, was gone. Will had seen his desires ful- 
filled, he had watched the West grow until it was 
all that he had hoped for it — and saw in the 
future a greater dream of empire than even he 
had imagined back in the days of Hays City and 
our buffalo hunts. The paths that had been trod 
by Indians were now the paths of industry. 
Automobiles shot here and there in perfect safety 
about the plains where the bison once had roamed, 
and where the danger of death lay in every hill 
and valley and hummock. 

Side by side, there were three of us who 
watched the years fade, and the sunset grow 
319 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

nearer — Will, dear faithful old Major Burke, 
and myself. The season of 1916 ended and to- 
gether Will and I came to Denver, where he 
planned to meet Johnny Baker whose face now 
had begun to bear a few wrinkles in the place of 
the freckles that had shown there the day he asked 
Will to let him black his boots on the circus. The 
meeting was to make plans for a new show, for a 
greater show, for in spite of the various vicissi- 
tudes of the Wild West exhibition business, Will 
still believed in it. One thing had been borne to 
him, through the never failing worship of Youth- 
ful America, that he was an idol who never could 
be replaced, that as long as there were boys, and 
as long as those boys had red blood in their veins, 
they would thrill at the sight of him they loved, 
and cheer the sounding reverberation of his great, 
booming voice as he whirled into the arena on 
his great, white horse, came to a swinging stop 
before the grandstand, and raised his hand for 
the famous salute from the saddle. 

Will had not aged, in spite of his years. He 
still was lithe and strong, still able to grip the ribs 
of his horse with strong, clinging knees, still able 
to raise his rifle and aim it with deadly effect. It 
had been only a year before that he had fought 
320 



MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

his way through the snows about our home at 
Cody, and brought home a buck deer, felled with 
a shot from his rifle. 

He had not aged, and his heart was young. 
But the years, in spite of the light weight they 
apparently made upon his shoulders, were fight- 
ing and fighting hard against the resolve that was 
in his mind, to live on and on, forever. 

I went back to Cody, only to start at the sight 
of the editor of the little town paper, bringing 
me the news that Will was seriously ill. But 
with his arrival there came a messenger from the 
telegraph station, with a telegram from Will. 

"Don't believe exaggerated reports about my 
illness," it read. "They're trying to tell me I'm 
going to die. But I've still got my boots on, and 
they can't kill me, Mamma. They've tried it 
before." 

I laughed as I read it. Time and again had 
the reports of his approaching death shot over 
the country — almost with every illness in his later 
years did the rumor go forth, and this telegram 
assured me that here was only another exagger- 
ated report, only another wild rumor. But 

He wired me that he was going to Glenwood 
Springs, and that the waters there would help 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

him. At the depot in Denver, the reporters 
clustered about him, asking him about his illness. 
But he laughed at them and at the rumors. For 
was he not on his feet? Did he not have his boots 
on? Why, next season, he was going to start out 
with the biggest show that he ever had known — 
one that would even make his exhibition at the 
Chicago World's Fair seem diminutive. And how 
were we to know that already his mind was 
wandering, that the person who was speaking was 
not Will Cody, the strong, able-bodied man who 
had fought the plains, but only a shell, only a 
living thing that fought the approach of death 
even as he had fought the fight for the upbuilding 
of the West — fighting until the last atom of en- 
ergy and reserve should be exhausted? 

He did not know, those about him did not 
know, I did not know. But the news must come 
and it hurried over the telegraph wires twenty- 
four hours later, a message from his physician: 

"Colonel Cody is slowly but surely dying. 
There is no hope whatever for him. We are 
bringing him back to Denver." 

It was there that I met him, a frail, white- 
faced man, the long white hair clinging about his 
temples, the lips thin and white and wan — but a 
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man, fighting to the end. He laughed at my 
tears, he patted my cheek, and strove to assemble 
again the old, booming voice. But it was weak 
now and breaking. 

"Don't worry, Mamma," he said time after 
time, "I'm going to be all right. The doctor 
says I'm going to die, does he? Well, I'm pretty 
much alive just now, ain't I. I've still got my 
boots on. I'll be all right." 

But as the days passed, in spite of the fact that 
he still "kept his boots on," he began to realize. 
The last fight was ending — ending in spite of the 
fact that he was struggling against it with every 
fiber of his being. Long years in the past, up at 
Cody, he and I once had talked of death, as we 
looked out toward the vari-colored mountains 
which hedged in our little town. And then he 
had told me of his desires — to be buried up there, 
where the last rays of the sun touched the hills at 
night, where the first glad glow sent its bright 
rays upward in the dawn. Then he had told me 
that he had wanted to spend his last days in the 
little town he had founded, up there in his hotel, 
which bore his daughter's name. 

Now, he was too weak. With every bit of 
strength he had he struggled daily into his cloth- 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

ing that he might still strive on "with his boots 
on." His body was literally living off itself — 
yet he fought on, still he strove to laugh away 
our fears, and joke about the inevitable. 

"Not dead yet!" He would shake his long 
locks and raise his head. "No sirree, not dead 
yet! I'm a pretty much alive dead man, I am. 
I've still got my boots on!" 

But — it was on the day before the end came — 
he very quietly viewed the subject in a different 
light. 

"I want to be buried on top of Mount Look- 
out. It's right over Denver. You can look down 
into four states there. It's pretty up there. I 
want to be buried up there — instead of in 
Wyoming." 

Then he swerved back to the old fight again. 
That night he played a game of solitaire and 
joked about what the doctors had said regarding 
his condition. He tried to bring a smile to our 
lips — we were all at the home of Mrs. Lou 
Decker, his sister — but the effort was feeble. 
Now and then he would turn anxiously, as though 
watching the door. 

"I wish Johnny would come!" he said again and 
again — Johnny Baker who was racing across 
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MEMORIES OF BUFFALO BILL 

country in the vain hope of being able to speak a 
good-by to his "Guv'nor;" Johnny Baker, who, 
as a freckle-faced boy, had begged for a chance 
to black his boots, Johnny Baker who loved him 
and who was beloved by him. Then he asked for 
Burke — but Burke was far away too. The hours 
dragged on. 

Ten o'clock came on the tenth of January, and 
with it unconsciousness. At twelve o'clock, the 
messages began to speed across the world. Buf- 
falo Bill, my Will, was dead. 

Out of a haze I remember the next few days, 
the long throngs of people stretching for blocks 
about the Colorado Statehouse where his body 
lay in state, the riderless, white horse that once 
he had strode in his salute from the saddle, walk- 
ing behind the flag-draped casket which carried 
his body, the tolling bells, the scurrying mes- 
senger boys, bringing condolences even from 
kings and presidents. Atop Mount Lookout, we 
kept his wish, far up toward the heaven, where 
below can be seen the stretches of the plains of 
Kansas and Nebraska, the hills of Colorado and 
the hummocks of Wyoming — his old roving 
places of other days. There we said good-by, and 

now 

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And now, up here in Cody, I face the sunset. 
My children are gone — Arta following an opera- 
tion, Irma as a result of the epidemic which 
claimed its toll even out here in the far West. 
I am alone, my life lived, my hands folded. I 
have seen them all go, one by one, according to 
the will of the Great Dictator; and it is hard 
to say the last good-by and stay behind. 

Yes, mv life is lived, and out here in the West, 
where each evening brings a more wonderful, 
more beautiful blending at sunset, I watch the 
glorious colorings and feel a sense of satisfaction 
that it will not be long now until I see the fading 
of the sunset of my own little world, until the 
time shall come when I am with the children I 
loved, and the man I loved — on the Trail Beyond. 

THE END 



